


polaris (and other ways to find home)

by Kalopsia



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, New Jersey Summer, Pining, Slow Burn, Summer Vacation, figuring out feelings, nj is the third character in this fic, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-14 09:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13587399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalopsia/pseuds/Kalopsia
Summary: The summer before he leaves for college, Jeremy falls in love with his best friend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the pet project i've been working on since december!! this fic started off as a summer camp au, but kind of shifted over time into what's become my attempt at documenting the particular experience of a new jersey summer. i know it's about michael and jeremy, but a lot of this fic has to do with the idea of place/home, and so most of the scenes come directly from my own experiences (this will come more into play in chapters 2/3) 
> 
> this is a 3 part fic. each of the chapters can be read separately but do tell a cohesive story. 
> 
> also, i made a playlist for this fic that i'll probs be continually adding to. if you'd like to listen: [(x)](https://open.spotify.com/user/xskfqvoui78r5menvcbd9c3ac/playlist/1Zt5wEGEGqbcHsyyQldNC2). if you don't want the whole playlist, this fic was pretty much wholly inspired by sufjan stevens' "the predatory wasp of the palisades is out to get us". i'd give that a listen. 
> 
> enjoy! :)

* * *

**june twenty-eighth  
** (northvale diner)  
_1:14am_  

The summer night is so electric that Jeremy feels it crackling against his skin. It dances across the hair on his arms and sparks in his fingers before the current grounds out against the wet glass of his milkshake. It’s vanilla, with a side of curly fries, and a plate of pickles for the table. The same way it’s been since before he can remember.

The table itself is only for the two of them, like it always is when they come to the diner. It’s a tiny booth against the window and his and Michael’s feet aren’t touching underneath the table. Outside, the air is unbearably humid and tastes like a summer storm, but inside they’re sitting right underneath the air conditioning vent, cold on Jeremy’s bare arms. The light from the twenty-four hour Dunkin’ and the empty Shop Rite across the street are the only things visible through the window. That, and Michael’s hazy reflection that currently displays his fingers sneaking closer to Jeremy’s food.

Jeremy whips his head around and yanks his plate closer to his body a heartbeat before Michael reaches the fries. Michael leans back in the leather seat and pouts.

“But I’m  _starving,”_ he whines.

Jeremy nods towards the tiny white plate sitting between them. “Have a pickle. They’re free.”

“I’ve already had three,” Michael says. He sits forward again and tears off the paper on his straw before dunking it into his water. He takes a sip, looking at Jeremy with big, pleading eyes. Jeremy shakes his head, trying not to laugh. Michael pulls off with a pout. “C’mon. Just one.”

“Your food’s gonna be here in like, five minutes,” Jeremy tells him. He dips a fry into the shake, and hums as he chews, smiling because he knows it’ll piss Michael off.

“Fuck you. I can’t believe twelve years of friendship isn’t even worth a curly fry.” Michael kicks his foot halfheartedly underneath the table and takes another pickle. He eyes Jeremy’s fries mournfully. “I’d let you have one of mine.”

Jeremy doesn’t move his leg from where Michael’s is now pressed up against it. Instead, he sighs and over-exaggeratedly pushes the fries a few inches closer to Michael. He points to a single one, hanging halfway off the edge of the plate. “Fine. You can have _that one.”_

Michael sits up straighter and snags the fry before Jeremy can go back on his word. “Oh my God, never mind, I’ll never doubt our bond again.”

“I’ll be holding you to that,” Jeremy says, a laugh tickling his chest as Michael holds the fry up like it’s something to be worshipped. Jeremy lifts his eyebrows. “Jesus, Michael, are you gonna eat it or have sex with it?”

“Not mutually exclusive.” Michael lets his eyes fall shut as he pops it into his mouth, and groans in a way that travels straight through where their knees are touching. The rush of it up Jeremy’s spine almost distracts him entirely from Michael darting his hand out to steal another fry.

Jeremy knocks his knee hard against Michael’s underneath the table, and Michael kicks him back, and then suddenly they’re ten years old again and playing footsie like the rest of the world can’t see exactly what’s going on between them.

Jeremy releases his glass to grip the table, and lets the night be electric inside of him.

  

* * *

  **june twenty-ninth  
** (palisades interstate parkway)  
_6:34am_  

Jeremy’s dad picks Michael up at sunrise, then treats them both to bagels, then drives them to the Mell family’s lakehouse on the last Monday in June, just like he has every summer for the past seven years. This is the first year that it’s just going to be the two of them, due to Michael’s parents attending a wedding in Ecuador, and Jeremy’s dad’s surprising but permissive, “If I can’t let you boys keep alone in a cabin, then I shouldn’t be letting you go to college.”

Michael brings a red duffel bag and a backpack decorated with pins that he’s collected across the years. In it, Jeremy knows, is a spare sweatshirt, his toiletries, and a tiny ziploc bag of weed hidden alongside his deodorant. Jeremy has his own blue glass smoking bowl packed away inside a pair of socks, like they’ve done for the past two years, so that they’re both equally responsible in case they get caught.

It’s not a particularly long drive, but every year it feels shorter. Maybe because the route is more familiar every time they follow it. Maybe because time seems to be pressing down, limited now that there’s a definitive end to everything. For the first time in seven years, Jeremy doesn’t know if they’ll be back next year. They’ll be going to college. Neither of them know what that means for the long-term.

Neither of them are morning people either, so it’s easy for the silence to lull them half-asleep as the ports and skylines slowly turn into endless arching cliffs. His dad hums along to every single 70s rock song that comes on the radio, and whistles the lyrics he doesn’t know.

Jeremy turns his head just to stretch his neck, and finds Michael staring out the window. Jeremy’s gaze traces the curve of Michael’s collarbone into his throat and follows the line of his jaw out the window, where the suburbs have turned into the Palisades. Beyond the trees, the river stretches for miles ahead of them, alongside them, and glitters in the morning light.

When Jeremy catches himself staring at Michael’s sun-drenched skin, his sleepy half-lidded eyes, he quickly turns his head back to his own window. Leftover sparks of last night’s electricity jump at his fingertips and his own skin feels too tight, but he can’t place why, so he writes it on the early hour and the thrilling potential of their last summer before they have to leave for college.

He doesn’t think about it though. Instead, he shifts in his seat and watches the houses built into the cliffside fly by.

 

* * *

  **june thirtieth  
** (sackett lake, upstate new york)  
_11:34pm_

Jeremy flops down on the bed across from Michael and kicks his bare feet right above the floor. His dad had just left, only leaving him and Michael alone in the Mell’s cabin after making the bare minimum of seven thousand jokes about their imminent college move-in date. They’re sharing the guest room, matching twin beds on opposite ends of the room, because somehow sleeping in separate rooms made them both feel too small in the big and empty house.

His legs are longer than they were last year and almost touch the floorboards, his toes barely scraping the ground with each swing. The room is still haphazardly unpacked, and not quite yet lived in. There are still spiderwebs to clean from the corners and stories to tell to age the wood, but it’s home for the next two weeks and they have plenty of time to do both.

“Don’t you think it’s crazy,” Michael says to the ceiling. “How many different types of mothball smell there are? I swear, every year our room smells exactly the same but always a little bit different.”

Jeremy sits up and tucks his chin onto his bare knees, too hot to sleep in anything but boxers, and watches Michael’s stomach rise and fall because he can’t see his face. “I guess it makes sense. When you think about how many kinds of moths there are. Although I’m pretty sure moth balls don’t actually have anything to do with moths.”

“Uh, isn’t there only one?” Michael sits up too, ignoring the second part of Jeremy’s statement, and Jeremy drags his gaze up to his face. “Like, isn’t a  _moth_ it’s own kind of- something?”

“No, aren’t moths the type of bug? Like spiders. There’s gotta be a thousand different types of spiders.”

“There are a thousand different types of a thousand different things, but the only good spider is a dead spider.” Michael draws his knees up and mirrors his position. “I mean it, who the fuck thought a thousand types of eight-legged demons would be a good idea?”

Jeremy snorts. “Evolution’s a bitch.”

“Yeah, no shit.  _Daddy long legs._ Seriously, what the fuck.” Michael pitches forward and grapples underneath the bed for something. “At least evolution let us have  _this.”_

He sits up, grinning victorious and holding a can of bug spray towards the ceiling light as if it were Simba being named.

Jeremy laughs, surprised. “Oh my God. I didn’t think you’d remember.”  

“I wasn’t gonna forget after last year.” Michael waggles his eyebrows. “Remember how you thought you got bit by a brown recluse because your arm swelled up? I thought your dad was gonna pick you up and take you home early and leave me alone with my parents. The spiders can suck it for all I care.” 

He sprays himself as he talks, then his bed, and everything around it. He tosses the bottle to Jeremy, who catches it and does the same. Once sufficiently protected, he sniffs, then snickers. “Oh man. Citronella and mothballs. What a combo.”

“Home sweet home,” Michael says, beaming at him, then reaches over and turns out the light.

 

* * *

  **july second  
** (the lakeside firepit)  
_8:22pm_

 The weaponized names they throw at school don’t reach them at the cabin. They’ve been coming here so long that he and Michael are a package deal, expected and as much a part of the lake’s tradition as the campfire in front of them, and so people pretty much leave them alone. It’s a sweeter deal than it sounds. A luxury they aren’t afforded anywhere else but here, in the mountains in upstate New York, where they don’t have to be anyone but themselves.

As part of Jeremy’s dad’s minor “making up for lost time before college” crisis, he’d left them with their own bag of s’mores supplies to split between the two of them. They’d both spent the past two hours scrounging in the purple dusk for the perfect roasting stick, to surprising success. Michael, wearing only cargo shorts and a worn red tank top with the lakeside’s fading logo, had come back ridden with bug bites that he keeps scratching at mindlessly and a too-short stick that he’d abandoned twenty minutes ago in favor of sharing Jeremy’s.

Jeremy, having remembered the bug spray, had found one of perfect length, and now he sits on the log seat pressed into Michael’s side and doesn’t have to move in order to toast his marshmallow to a perfect golden brown.

Except, Michael’s leaning away for the tenth time in as many minutes to scratch at an angry mosquito bite on his ankle, and Jeremy suddenly feels too-cold without the furnace that is Michael Mell heating him up, despite the blazing fire in front of him.

“Make an X with your fingernail,” Jeremy tells him as he slowly rotisseries the stick, refocusing on the fire on his shins. “That always helps them stop itching.”

Michael scoffs. “Urban legend.”

“Your loss.” Jeremy pulls the marshmallow back and smushes it between two graham crackers, foregoing the chocolate in favor of eating a s’more that’s still volcanic.

He hands the stick to Michael, and watches him stuff his own marshmallow directly into the embers. It catches on fire immediately, and Jeremy watches Michael watch the white fluff turn dark.

Michael hums, and the sound reverberates in Jeremy’s chest, low and deep and warm. Michael splits a Hershey’s bar in half and lays each piece on a cracker before completing the meal with the blackened fluff. “I’m telling you now, this is going to be the best s’more mankind has ever seen.”

He pulls the flaming marshmallow closer to his face, waiting for the right moment to blow it out, and Jeremy can’t help but memorize the way the firelight flickers against Michael’s face. It bathes him in soft golden light and mirrors itself in his eyes like homemade stars.

Jeremy commits the image of Michael and the smell of smoke and Catskill air to memory and tries to remember the last time he felt like this, like the fire had suddenly appeared inside him and was alighting his world anew.

Michael blows out the melting marshmallow and adds it to his s’more, and Jeremy watches him take a bite, staring at the bit of chocolate that smudges on his lower lip. He hands the stick over and leans back into Jeremy’s side. When he stretches his legs out, Jeremy can see the tiny  _x_ he’s dug into the bite on his thigh.

Then Michael moans, obscene, and Jeremy blinks back to reality in time to shove him and laugh.

“ _Gross_ , dude.” Jeremy takes a bite of his own s’more, and speaks with his mouth full. “How is it?”

Michael grins, marshmallow and chocolate sticking to his teeth. “The best s’more mankind has ever seen.”

 

* * *

**july fourth  
** (thompson park)  
_10:10pm_

 Jeremy loves fireworks.

They’re illegal in New Jersey, except for the tame sparklers that his dad will sometimes bring home. He used to have an uncle who would smuggle the bigger ones in from Pennsylvania and set them off in his backyard, but his uncle stopped visiting around the same time his mom did.

He loves the heartbeat before the boom, the silence that descends across everything and holds the world inside the anticipation. He loves the afterimage of the golden fire that falls through the sky and stains the smoke with the memory of of light. He loves the colors and the shapes and the people he sees them with, the neighbors who adore Michael’s family and the kids he only meets for a few weeks of the year and everybody else who doesn’t know the things his classmates do to them back home. Most of all, though, even if he’d never admit it out loud, he loves how lucky he is to get to do all this with Michael.

They’ve spent the last six Fourth of July’s at the lake. On the seventh, just like it’s been for as long as Jeremy can remember, he and Michael head down to the local high school and stake out a spot on the baseball field. Then, they head to the convenience store across the street and apologetically pay in dollar bills and spare change and lug the snack bags to the edge of the massive crowd and spread the blanket and lay down and wait, watching the mosquitos swarm around the field lights above them.

The air, like always, is abuzz with children chasing each other and siblings screaming and flashlights and the smell of the cotton candy and kettle corn that you can buy by the bag from the food trucks that line the street. Content, Jeremy revels in the thrum and he and Michael take turns tossing Skittles at each other and trying to catch them in their mouths.

Then the lights go dim, and the crowd  _oohs,_ and the fireworks begin, and Michael gasps at every single one and Jeremy is always too full and too bright with the particular freedom of summer nights and the great big feelings he had for Michael Mell but will never, ever admit to and everything in between.

It’s different than it used to be. Not entirely. The shared blanket is still there, and so are the snacks, but now they’re tall enough that Michael has to press close to Jeremy to avoid laying half-on the grass, and Jeremy has to pretend like his heart is beating at a perfectly normal pace as Michael wriggles impossibly closer.

They’re older now, too. But not entirely, and Jeremy is still always bright with the particular freedom of summer nights and the stupid thrill he gets in his toes whenever Michael’s gasp breaks the fleeting silence of anticipation right before the color explodes across the sky.

He still feels the same grass itching his legs and the cotton-candy pull of sugar on his teeth. There’s still the cheers of the younger kids around the lake and the shouts that get caught in breaking silence between the booms.

There are the off-duty mountain rangers who have inadvertently watched him grow up and the local shop owners who have seen him grow into himself and the cabin neighbors who don’t know Michael and Jeremy as anything other than  _MichaelAndJeremy,_ which is a luxury that Jeremy finds he’s kind of gotten used to.

Everything he feels is still in the smell of sweetened gunpowder and feeling of the world stretched out ahead of him, endless and new in the July evening, but now there’s that unfamiliar glowing ache in his chest whenever Michael looks at him a certain way. There’s that feeling that’s made itself at home in his bones, some nervous part of him that’s found calm on this blanket on this lake. There’s that weight to things, now, that Jeremy’s never noticed before.

And although it’s not much, Jeremy thinks, turning his head just in time to see the firework explosion light up Michael’s grin, it feels something like home.

 

* * *

  **july seventh  
** (sackett lake)  
_3:37pm_

Michael doesn’t sunburn.

Jeremy knows this, because their first summer at the lakehouse his dad forgot to pack sunscreen and Jeremy was the one who bore the consequences. He had to sit inside for a week in favor of thrice-daily aloe sponge-baths and a stern warning from Michael’s mom about ultraviolet dangers to pale skin, or something.

Because he’s haunted by Mrs. Mell’s words, he’s sitting on the edge of the dock while Michael treads water in front of him. He’s shirtless and waiting for the sunscreen to set in his skin as Michael bobs in the water.

Michael, who’s soaked and shining in the sun, and Jeremy can’t help but notice how his shoulders dip in and out of the water with each movement, the lithe muscle working under his bare skin. The sun glitters in the ripples he’s making, and Jeremy kicks water at Michael’s face to mask the heat that suddenly warms his blood.

_“Dude!”_

Michael flips the hair out of his eyes and uses one of his arms to splash back. Jeremy lifts an arm to protect himself from the wave that crashes against his skin, taking half the still-setting sunscreen along with it.

“Hey, hey!” Jeremy complains, kicking more water lightly at Michael’s face. “I still have five more minutes before I’m waterproof.”

 _“Fuck_ the sun,” Michael says, his eyes glinting, then grabs Jeremy’s ankle and pulls.

Hard.

Jeremy tumbles into the water and sinks underneath the surface, disoriented enough to let the murk consume him for a moment. He’s only got half a lungful of air, but it’s enough to let him wait a second for his world to readjust. He squints his eyes open underwater and stares, at Michael, who’s somehow also submerged himself with the force of pulling Jeremy down.

He’s looking right back at Jeremy, eyes too wide and too close and too clear in front of him.

Something in Jeremy wants to lean forward and steal the distance so there’s nothing left between them. He doesn’t know what would happen if he did, but the something inside of him aches to find out.

He can still feel the memory of Michael’s fingers wrapped tight around his ankle. Wonders what they’d feel like wrapped around Jeremy’s wrist, or his hips, wonders if Michael would put his hands someplace else entirely should Jeremy give in to that terrifying ache inside him.

Except, his lungs are burning a gentle reminder of his need to breathe, and so instead he kicks his legs and cracks the surface, sucking in quick breaths to soothe his pounding heart.

Michael follows suit, popping up right next to him, already laughing and pushing sopping hair from his eyes.

“What the  _fuck,_ dude!” Jeremy cries, but he’s laughing too, something warm pooling in his stomach. He treads water with one arm and shoves Michael with the other.  

Michael doesn’t answer except to grab Jeremy’s wrist and yank it around his own shoulders, his back a sudden steady pressure under Jeremy’s arm. Jeremy’s breath catches just in time for Michael to pull him underneath the water again, and then the fight is on.

It’s easy to forget the ache in favor of the thrill, in the way his laughter gets lost in the lake when Michael tickles his stomach underwater, in the way their yells and gasps get cut off with each touch and pull back beneath the surface. Funnily enough, Jeremy finds that he’s already familiar with how it feels to drown.

Afterwards, when the lifeguard’s insistent whistling threatens more than the idea of losing their makeshift war, they drag their feet though the rocky sand and shake the lakewater from their hair. All Jeremy feels is the hot memory of Michael’s skin, wet and smooth against his own, fingertips dragging against his back and arms hauled around his stomach and something in him still begs for more.

He’s always wanting more, these days, can’t help but wonder how much Michael would let him take, should he ask. He doesn’t know what he would, but he doesn’t think he’d mind finding out.

The walk back to the lakehouse is slow, each of them barefoot and holding their flip-flops as the gravel works out the sand between their toes. True to character, Jeremy’s freckled skin is already red and peeling. It stings with everything that dares to brush against it, even the late afternoon sunlight that drapes itself over Jeremy’s shoulders. The same way it’s done since before he can remember.

Jeremy yawns anyway, warm and happy and calm despite the burning he feels.

Michael arches his eyebrows. “Dude, the day is young. You flaking out on me already?”

“No way, man,” Jeremy insists, but twists his arm to see the sun’s damage. He winces a little at the pinch of pain that comes with it. “I think my skin might be, though.”

Michael laughs, full and fond, and bumps his shoulder lightly against Jeremy’s as they continue their trek back to the cabin.

(His insides burn hotter at the contact than the sunburn ever could, but he resolutely doesn’t ask the question because he doesn’t want to know the answer.)

 

* * *

**july eleventh  
** (first floor roof)  
_2:16am_

 The best part about this particular cabin is that it’s on the edge of the lake, overlooking the forest and not the rest of the community housing, and it has a long sloping roof just outside their window. A window that is perfectly accessible, should you push the tall dresser right underneath it and climb on top of it, which is exactly what they do.

Jeremy takes the glass blue bowl from his sock, and Michael stuffs the non-toiletries items from his toiletry bag into his hoodie pocket, and lets Jeremy lead the way. He scrambles out the window first, all lanky limbs and reddened skin, and settles himself on the sloping shingles. Then, he helps Michael do the same.

Michael hits his knee on the window frame half-way through, and hisses, “Ow,  _fuck me_ -”

Jeremy’s stomach flips, but he blames the butterflies on the fear of getting caught and not on Michael’s words echoing in his head. He whispers, “Shh, the kids next door will hear you.”

He grips Michael’s forearms tighter, to steady him. Instead of focusing on the way his pulse quickens in his fingertips, he wraps his thumbs around Michael’s wrists and roots him so he’s no longer at risk of falling.

Michael snorts, gripping Jeremy’s shoulder to haul himself out. His thumb curls against Jeremy’s collarbone as he says, “The only thing they’re gonna hear is  _you_ coughing like an asthmatic the second you take a hit, you dweeb.”

Michael settles on the roof and leans back against the wall of the cabin, but Jeremy doesn’t let go of him right away. Instead, he waits for Michael to start digging in his hoodie pocket and pull out the tiny ziplock bag, for his eyes to catch around the fingers wrapped around his wrist as he unzips it.

“Bowl?” Michael asks, and Jeremy releases his grip, his face warm. He ducks his head and grabs it from his own sweatshirt pocket, and when he hands it over he does not focus on the way Michael’s fingers brush against his own.

He watches Michael pack the bowl, staring at the hands that move deftly and surely around the grinder even in the dark. He’s never noticed how long Michael’s fingers are, how familiar and capable they are as they work.

The rhythm of it lulls his mind into images of what else Michael’s fingers could do like that, deft and sure, and his mouth goes dry at the thought. Jeremy doesn’t realize he’s stopped breathing until Michael leans in, holding the bowl to his lips, and murmurs, “Give me a light?”

Jeremy jolts, his own hands sweaty and fumbling with the lighter, and it takes him four tries to get it right. When he finally does, Michael takes a long pull and holds it before slowly breathing out the smoke. Jeremy watches it float up and disappear against the stars.

Michael passes the bowl to Jeremy, who takes a hit and doesn’t cough. He feels the warm buzz of pride in his belly, in the way the smoke slips easily from his mouth into the cool nighttime air. Below them and ahead of them, the endless forest stretches, illuminated only by the moonlight and the mosquito lamps that hang from the corners of the cabin.

“It smells so good out here,” Jeremy murmurs in between hits, the world already going hazy and sweet around him. “Like- well. Actually I don’t know what like. But I like it.”

Michael re-lights the bowl, pausing to take another drag before he answers. Then he snorts, a warm rumble from his chest. The buzz in Jeremy’s rib cage gets louder. “Like weed?”

Jeremy shoves Michael, snickering. “Yeah, dude, sure. Exactly like that.” He takes the bowl back. “No, like, clean, or something.” Pauses, thinks a moment while he pulls a drag. “New, almost.”  

Michael hums. “I hear you, man.”

Jeremy passes the bowl again, content with the quiet that rests between them. They repeat the motion, once, twice, three more times, until the bowl is ashy and dead. Around them, the crickets sing.

“Jer?”

“Mm.”

“I’ve missed this,” Michael whispers, breaking the silence and shifting so his leg rests against Jeremy’s. “I missed you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jeremy whispers back, turning to look. Michael’s looking at him, eyes glazed and cheeks red from the day’s dying heat. “I’m right here. I’m always right here.”

“I know you are. But you’re different here than you are at home,” Michael says. He blinks once, slowly, heavily, then looks down. “You’re, like, softer here.”

Jeremy squeaks.  _“Softer?”_

“Shh, they’ll hear you.” Michael turns the bowl upside down and gently taps out the remains. “And shut up, you know what I mean.” He brushes the blackened bits of weed off the roof. “I just- you’re quieter here. Calmer. Like you have reasons to stay instead of reasons to run.”

He looks back up at Jeremy, a little bashful, a little more honest than Jeremy’s used to. It plunges something deep in his chest, cracks him open and refuses to stitch him back the way he was before.

“Oh,” Jeremy says, brilliantly.

Michael takes his shattered tone as disinterest and shoves him lightly. “I like it, is all. Relaxed is a good look on you.”

Jeremy doesn’t feel relaxed at all. His hands are sweaty against the shingles and the high is making him dizzy with how close he is to Michael’s crooked smile. The buzzing leaks through him, spreads so his bones are humming with the force of it. Jeremy swallows, not trusting his voice not to crack from the way the smoke has dried it.

His heart is in his mouth, too. He thinks maybe if he opens it, it’ll tumble right out into Michael’s lap and he’ll never be able to put it back again properly, so he doesn’t say anything at all.

 

* * *

  **july eleventh  
** (the cabin guest room)  
_4:44am_

 “I can’t sleep,” Jeremy whispers into the darkness. “Can I-?”

He’s not even sure if Michael’s awake. But the world is so loud with the buzzing inside him and he just needs-  _something._ He just needs  _more._ He gets like this when he’s high, sometimes, but it’s always embarrassing, so he doesn’t dare finish the question. He doesn’t dare ask again.

Michael’s probably asleep, or something, and Jeremy’s not gonna be the one to wake him up just because his stupid high-addled brain wants to be near him. Everything is so loud and so big inside him it’s a miracle the whole town doesn’t come looking to see what’s going on in the Mell’s lakehouse. It’s a good thing they don’t though, Jeremy figures, because he wouldn’t even know what to tell them. He doesn’t even know himself.

There’s only silence, save for the big heavy buzzing in his bones. Jeremy waits on his back, staring through the darkness. He tries to imagine what the ceiling looks like, even though he can’t see it. Popcorned and spray painted white. Sharp to the touch. There and real even if he can’t see it.

He’s about to give up and roll over, resigned to wrap himself around a pillow and wait until sleep takes him on its own, when-

“Yeah,” Michael finally replies. His voice is dazed and rough but finds its way clearly through the darkness. “C’mere.”

Jeremy doesn’t hesitate before rolling out of his bed to pad over to Michael’s. He hears the squeak of the bed as Michael scoots over, and then he’s sliding over and lying down and he can feel the warmth of Michael’s breath against his nape, softly brushing against Jeremy’s hair.

It doesn’t take more than ten seconds for Jeremy’s body to catch up with his brain and realize this is a terrible idea. It’s a terrible idea because Michael is slowly, cautiously moving a hand to smooth over Jeremy’s hip and Jeremy can’t help how he pulls said hand up to hold inside his own against the place where his stomach meets his ribs.

It’s a terrible idea because one of them shifts, or both of them shift, and they fit together just like they have for the past twelve years and this is a  _terrible_ idea because everything is big and loud and cracking apart inside him and he doesn’t know how to put it back the way it was.

It’s a terrible idea because it should be awkward. It should be weird. And it is, a little bit. But then Michael’s breath slowly evens out and Jeremy can feel the steady rhythm of his stomach rising against his back and he can’t help the way his own thumb brushes against Michael’s knuckles on its own accord. His hands are warm. It feels like home. Like the cracking won’t shatter so long as he stays glued to Michael’s side.

It’s a terrible idea because Jeremy’s in too deep. He’s in too deep, and he’s asking the question he resolutely doesn’t want to answer, except the answer comes anyway with the weight of Michael’s palm pressed flat against his stomach. It tumbles over him with a million other thoughts and worries but it sticks out clear and true, undeniable, unbidden.

 _I think,_ Jeremy tries inside his head.  _I think I’m-_

“Jeremy.” Michael squeezes his hand, his voice sticky with sleep.

He breathes out a shaky, “Yeah?”, and wonders if Michael can feel Jeremy’s heart beating from where his hand is pressed against his chest.  

It’s then that Michael’s chin finds its way to rest on Jeremy’s shoulder, his feet tangling with Jeremy’s. All he can hear is the soft sound of Michael’s breathing, rising and falling in perfect time with his own.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Michael murmurs into his neck. “Just go t’sleep.”

And then Jeremy realizes with a start that the buzzing has finally gone quiet in favor of the now-familiar quiet ache in his chest, but it’s the soothing silence of it all that finally pulls him down to sleep.

 

* * *

**july thirteenth  
** (candy cone ice cream shop)  
_9:14pm_

 Jeremy’s ice cream is melting, and he can’t quite keep up with it.

It’d be humiliating with anybody else, the way the creamsicle flood rushes down the cone and drips mercilessly onto his hand like a godless natural disaster, but it’s just Michael, who laughs and laughs and doesn’t judge as Jeremy fails to contain the mess.

“Stop laughing!” Jeremy sputters, and he can feel his face heating up, but he can’t help his own laugh from bubbling up and out as he tries to keep himself clean. “Stop- I can’t-  _Michael!”_

“I can’t tell where you end and the ice cream begins,” Michael says in between peals of giggles, pushing underneath his glasses to wipe tears from his eyes. “Dude, you gotta- fuck, I dunno, lick faster or something-”

“I’m licking as fast as I can!” Jeremy wails. “Why did you let me get a cone, you  _traitor-”_

Michael hiccups in his laughter, loud and unrestrained and happy, and Jeremy likes the way it sounds, likes how he can tell that Michael isn’t thinking about what he sounds like or looks like or who’s looking, because he’s with Jeremy, and he never does any of that when it’s just the two of them. Jeremy likes the way the noise curls in his chest and carves itself into his heart, the way Michael’s warm laugh eases Jeremy’s own out from deep inside his belly and has pure unfiltered light sweeping through his body.

Likes it enough that he can’t find it in himself to be afraid of just how much he does.

 _“Dude,”_ Michael gasps, cackling louder still, and Jeremy blinks back to reality to see that his valiant clean-up efforts are about to go to waste as another flood of orange ice cream rushes down his hand.  

Jeremy whines and swipes his tongue in a long loop around the cone, desperately trying to avoid further disaster. Then, he carefully trades the barely-contained melting mess to his other hand in favor of licking a broad stripe up his palm, and then each of his fingers, then back up and around the cone, desperately trying to minimize the mess. He changes hands again and when he looks back up, he swears Michael’s ears are tinged red.

Michael is also staring at him, his eyes wide and dark, and there’s something else in his gaze that Jeremy can’t place but desperately wants to be devoured by. His mouth is still open, the memory of his laugh dying between his parted lips, still red and wet and bitten from where he’d been eating his own cherry frozen ice.

Nothing has changed from three seconds ago. Everything has changed from three seconds ago.

It’s a look that makes Jeremy’s mouth go dry, makes his heart stutter in his chest, makes him wonder what would happen if he climbed over the table and into Michael’s lap and kissed the answer out of him, because he  _could,_ and it’d be so easy, and he could-

And then Jeremy’s ice cream gives up entirely and drops onto his legs, and the sudden shock of  _cold_ and  _gross_ and  _holy shit_ has him shrieking and stumbling into a standing position, shattering whatever just happened between them, and Michael is laughing again, but it sounds maybe too-tight, and saying as he gets up, “I’ll get you some napkins.”

And then Jeremy is left alone to helplessly and pointlessly wipe the mess from his shorts as he tries to figure out if Michael’s laugh sounded as forced as he thinks it did, if his gaze felt as heavy as he thinks it did, or if it’s all in his own too-loud, too-rushed, too-confused head.

 

* * *

**july fourteenth  
** (the far end of the lakehouse pier)  
_11:33am_

 Lunch on the lake with Michael is secretly one of Jeremy’s favorite things.

They don’t do it often, because extended time in direct sunlight is generally not something Jeremy actively seeks out, but it’s their last few hours at the lakehouse and so Jeremy decrees it a mandatory risk. He and Michael make turkey sandwiches with yellow mustard and grab salt and vinegar chips and pour instant iced tea into tall plastic cups and then dutifully carry their plates out onto the dock while they wait for Jeremy’s dad to pick them up.

The pier is low enough that Jeremy can sit on the edge and swing his leg back and forth in the water. It’s still early in the summer, so the lake is still mostly chilly, but it’s a welcome distraction from the late morning sun that beats through his thin cotton shirt.

Michael sits cross-legged across from him, bare faced in favor of his contacts and a forest green bucket hat. Jeremy’s not used to him without his glasses outside the first thirty seconds when he wakes up, and so he had to do a double take when Michael first rolled out of bed and kept them off in favor of his rarely-used contacts. Even now, Michael’s smooth face and clear eyes have Jeremy’s stomach churning, have him wistfully wishing for a repeat of last night, even if last night had ultimately ended with an uncomfortably sticky and painfully tense walk home, even if last night left him more confused than ever.  

Michael hadn’t mentioned it though, and any lingering awkwardness had thankfully disappeared after Jeremy had gotten out of the shower, scrubbed clean and washed free of any incriminating creamsicle swirl. Then they played Scrabble on Jeremy’s bed until he fell asleep during Michael’s turn, and he’d woken up at ten to Michael snoring from across the room, the half-finished game placed carefully on the floor between their beds.

“How much do you think a boat costs?” Michael asks, crunching on a chip and gently pulling Jeremy out of his head. “Like, more or less than a year of college?”

Jeremy shrugs. “Depends on the boat, I think. And also the college.”

Michael hums. “Your college.”

“Uh.” Jeremy looks up. “Why?”

“No, I just meant-” Michael takes a sip from his plastic cup. “Can you imagine spending a year’s worth tuition on a fucking boat?”

“Or getting a whole boat in exchange for a year’s worth of tuition?” Jeremy counters.

Michael tilts his hat at him. “Touché.” He pauses, ducking his head and spinning the remainder of his iced tea inside the cup. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “What do you think next summer will be like?”

“After college? We’ll be really fucking cool, probably,” Jeremy attempts, but it’s a weak joke. When Michael doesn’t say anything, he says, “I don’t know. Do you really want to talk about it?”

“No.” Michael looks up, his eyes alarmingly clear and close and Jeremy’s leg goes still in the water. Michael’s mouth works for a minute, trying to figure out what to say. “I just-” He makes a strangled noise and waves his cup around, worry darkening his eyes and stress wrinkling his nose. “You get me?”

“Yeah, I get you,” Jeremy says, warmth sparking through his chest as he watches Michael flap his arms in front of him. It’s a testament to how screwed he is that he finds it more endearing than distressing.

Michael grunts and goes back to looking out across the lake. “I hate not knowing.”

“Hey.” Jeremy puts his sandwich down and leans forward to place his hands firmly on Michael’s shoulders, holding him in place so they’re face-to-face. Michael looks up at him, and his stupid lack of glasses means his eyes are clearer and more immediate than Jeremy’s used to, nothing shielding them, nothing guarding Jeremy from seeing exactly what’s shining in Michael’s gaze. It leaves him a little breathless, how clearly he can read him, how he can’t read him at all. “Hey, it’s gonna be fine. We’re gonna be fine.”

“Yeah?” Michael’s eyes are wide, unusually honest and open, and there’s that  _look_ again, the one Jeremy can’t quite figure out but  _wants_ to. It’s mesmerizing, enough so that he barely even notices when his hand moves up to cup Michael’s face, his thumb stroking his jaw, his cheekbone, his temple.

“Yeah,” Jeremy promises.

Michael lets out a breath through his mouth, and Jeremy can’t help how his eyes flash down to look and catch on his slightly parted lips, and Michael is suddenly so close, so impossibly near to him that all Jeremy would need to do is tilt his head and press forward just the smallest amount and he’d be kissing him, and his heart triples in speed with how much he wants to, consequences be damned, because maybe Michael would kiss him  _back_ -

And then a car is honking, and Jeremy practically launches himself away from Michael with enough force that he almost topples into the water, except Michael grabs his shirt collar to balance him, and Jeremy is stuttering out a  _thank-you_ and a  _sorry_ as he bounces up to a standing position, and Michael is oddly silent, oddly still, and Jeremy feels like the world is collapsing, because nobody’s ever told him what happens after  _almost._

His dad shouts from the shore, “Hey there, rascals! Let’s get going! Beat that rush hour traffic, eh?”

And Jeremy runs a trembling hand through his hair, forcing out a short laugh, trying to catch his breath. He sticks out his hand towards Michael, who’s still sitting on the dock. Michael, who looks at his hand, and then at Jeremy, and for a terrifying heartbeat Jeremy doesn’t know if he’s going to accept it.

But Michael does, his grip steady and strong, and when he looks up he’s grinning easy and soft, like nothing ever happened, and he extends his own arm to motion down the dock.

“Well,” he says to Jeremy. “After you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> endless endless thanks to [mika](http://left-uncovered.tumblr.com) for letting me take her au and just fuckin run with it, and also for cheering me on through many many nights when i was convinced i'd never write again. this fic definitely would not exist without her. 
> 
> as always, love to [debi](http://debusya.tumblr.com) for reading/editing fics for fandoms she'll never be part of. 
> 
> UPDATE 3/21/18: [please cry over this BEAUTIFUL fanart by rubybumble with me!!](http://rubybumble.tumblr.com/post/172101092187/polaris-by-danisnotofire-kalopsia-ao3-is) it's of the underwater scene. i'm gonna die staring at it.
> 
> comments+kudos are always always appreciated. 
> 
> i am on [tumblr](http://danisnotofire.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is gonna feel a lil different from the rest, but i promise the summery scenes are coming back, lol. in the meantime, you can check out the pinterest board(s) i made for this fic, if you so please: [(x)](https://www.pinterest.com/dilemmatheemma007/new-jersey-summer-au/)

 

* * *

 

 **july fourteenth**  
(the car ride home)  
_12:14pm_

Jeremy’s pretty sure he’s in love with his best friend, who is maybe-but-still-probably-not giving weird signals back, even though they’re both _leaving for college_ in less than two months so what’s the _point_ of any of this, and so he spends the car ride home trying to reconfigure his world around the facts.

The trees fly by and everything is all backwards in his head as the Palisades cliffside turns into ports, and the ports turn into suburbs, and the whole time all Jeremy can think about is Michael, and the look in Michael’s eyes after Jeremy almost kissed him on the dock. The memory of it has Jeremy’s stomach swooping, because he doesn’t know what any of it _means_.

He can’t help but wish that he could go back and redo the past few weeks, pretend like nothing had ever changed between them, like everything he felt for Michael Mell was normal and platonic and fine and that he never started thinking about otherwise. Wishes his splitting heart would get over itself and just be happy with being Michael’s friend, because when he looks at the _facts,_ Jeremy _is._ He’s more than happy to stay platonically at his side if it means he gets to stay at all.

It just hurts, is all, no matter how much he wishes it didn’t.

He must look as bad as he feels, because a half an hour into the drive, his dad speaks up from the driver seat.

“You okay, sport?” He asks, glancing over at where Jeremy is still trying to put himself back together. “Awfully quiet over there.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” From the corner of his eye, he can see Michael lift his head and look towards the front seat, looks towards him, concerned. Jeremy just hopes his voice sounds less shaky than he feels. “Just tired, I guess.”

His dad makes a sympathetic noise. “Well, we’re only forty minutes from home. Then you can sleep all you want.”

Michael speaks from the backseat. “Careful, Mr. Heere. He’ll hold you to that.”

“Like you wouldn’t,” Jeremy tosses back, twisting to look at him.

“Guilty.” Michael shrugs, a small smile lifting his lips, and Jeremy can’t do anything except turn back around in his seat to stare straight through the windshield.

He sits in the front seat and does not turn to look behind him, where he knows Michael is probably still looking at him, because if he lets himself look now he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to stop.

The shame seeps further under his skin with every parkway exit they pass. Monticello has him praying he doesn’t lose Michael before he already has to give him up when the summer ends. Rock Hill, and the idea of his feelings being yet another reason they’ll probably get forced apart once college starts has him chewing on his lip in an attempt to stop the ache. Ramsey, and Jeremy remembers how Michael’s thigh pressed into his own as they smoked on the roof, the way his fingertips felt against his chest on the night he gave into the intoxicated buzzing in his bones, and it takes him until Ridgewood to swallow around the lump that jumps into his throat.

By the time they get to Middleborough, Jeremy’s mostly succeeding in pretending his feelings have been packed tight into a locked box and crushed with his heel. By the time they get to Michael’s house, he’s able to unfold himself from the car to help Michael take his bags up to the porch without completely falling apart.

He tries his best to avoid looking Michael in the eye though, because for all he’s tried to hide it he’s still afraid Michael will be able to read exactly what Jeremy is trying to hide.

He thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of pretending, at least until Michael drops his bag in the foyer and lays a tentative hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, thumb resting on his collarbone. Jeremy’s heart jumps to his throat and his eyes traitorously jump to meet Michael’s, and he can only hope his panic doesn’t look as evident as it feels.

“Jeremy,” Michael says, his voice soft, and then he falls quiet. His jaw works as he tries to figure out what to say. There’s a long heavy pause, and then he swallows and settles for, “We’re okay, right? _You’re_ okay?”

Jeremy blinks, the ground suddenly disappeared from beneath him. He knows exactly what Michael’s getting at. Everything he spent the car ride rebuilding crumbles apart in his chest, and the urge to cry comes back as if it had never gone.

 _I know what you were trying,_ is what Michael’s saying. _And whatever happened is gonna stay at the lake, and are you sure you’re okay with that?_

Jeremy’s not. He’s not okay and it feels even worse than usual because the only person who could make this better is the same reason he feels like this at all, but that still doesn’t stop him from wanting to push himself into Michael and breathe him in until everything feels better and he _can’t,_ so he’s not okay, and he’s not entirely sure he’ll ever be.

“Of course,” Jeremy tells him anyway, the lie coming so easy despite the way his insides are turning inside out. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“The lake,” Michael says, slowly, unsure. “I just thought that maybe-”

Michael pauses again, and Jeremy’s toes curl up as he begs _don’t call me on it don’t call me on it don’t call me on it_ in his head, as if thinking it loud enough will make Michael catch on, so he doesn’t have to crumble and admit the truth. So he doesn’t have to admit just how badly he wants more than what Michael is willing to give.

But then Michael blinks, and the shine is gone, and he straightens and dips his head. “Never mind.” He takes his bag from Jeremy’s hand, leaving his fingers curling around nothing. “You’re right, I’m just being stupid.”

Michael laughs as he says it, but the sound lays over Jeremy’s skin like saran wrap. Despite everything, Jeremy falters. “Michael-”

Michael drops his arm from Jeremy’s shoulder and hoists his backpack on his shoulder. “Dude, don’t worry about it. I think I’m just going crazy from sleep deprivation.” His tone is light as he starts climbing the stairs, but Jeremy thinks his shoulders look a little hunched. “You look like you are too, man. Take a nap when you get home or something.”

Jeremy hesitates, then asks quietly, “You sure?”

“‘Course,” Michael says, waving him off as his old smile falls back into place, the one he always uses to reassure people. Except, it’s the same smile that Michael only ever uses on people who _aren’t Jeremy_. “I’ll text you later. Promise.”  

“Okay,” Jeremy says, swallowing the hurt that trickles inside him. “Yeah, okay. I’ll- bye.” He turns to leave, and then his manners kick in. “Thanks for, uh. The lake. And everything.”

“No prob, my dude,” Michael says from halfway up the stairs. “Thanks for dealing with my sorry ass for two weeks.”

“Dude, I don’t _deal_ with you.” Jeremy says before he can stop himself. Michael pauses, looks at him and raises an eyebrow. Jeremy scrambles, “Stop, no, I just meant- your ass isn’t sorry. It’s- good.”

“My ass is good,” Michael echoes slowly, amusement lacing his tone.

Jeremy, more than ever, wishes he had fallen into the lake and drowned after all. He rubs his eyes with his palms in frustration, grumbling, cheeks heating up. “Shut up! You know what I mean.”

Michael laughs, and it eases the ache in Jeremy’s stomach, the familiar sound impossibly making him feel just the smallest bit better against all odds.

“Yeah,” Michael says, warm and fond but also maybe a little bit tired. “I do. I hear you loud and clear.”

 

* * *

**july fifteenth  
** (jeremy’s bedroom)  
_3:17am_

Jeremy’s first day back is largely uneventful. He collapses into bed pretty much the second he gets home, tossing his duffel bag to the corner of his room before falling face first onto his sheets, still in his clothes from the lake. He passes out soon after, using his arm as a pillow, and sleeps for thirteen hours with absolutely no dreams at all.

When wakes up, the world is deep and dark, and it takes him a minute or two to reconstruct reality around him. He slings his arm over his forehead as the rest of him wakes up, and turns to look at his clock just as his stomach growls, insistent and pressing. Jeremy groans, disoriented and dry-mouthed as he forces himself into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes before he gets up.

The kitchen is dark but the window is open, so the air is sweet and filled with cricketsong. Distantly, the noise of the downtown cargo train rumbles, its far-away horn blaring through the night. The worn wood of the kitchen floor is familiar under Jeremy’s feet as he pads across the room.

He has to look away for minute when he opens the fridge, standing dazed in the bright white light, more hungry than awake. When he blinks again he can actually see, so he grabs a slice of cheese and a jar of pickles and eats them at the counter.

His pulls out his phone just as the memory of the previous afternoon seeps back into his half-asleep brain. Checking his messages, he finds that Michael hadn’t texted him like he said he would, the _zero new messages_ staring at him unflinchingly in the dark and sleepy kitchen.

He chews on his lip, thinking. Michael probably just fell asleep too, or had some other thing to deal with besides him, and that’s _fine,_ that’s _healthy,_ so there’s literally no reason for Jeremy’s heart to be so loud about it. There are a zillion things Michael could be doing and none of them point to _he’s avoiding you because you stupidly almost-maybe-kind-of tried to kiss him._

He’ll just text him first. Yeah, there’s a plan. Except, when he goes to type something, he finds he has no idea what to say. He doesn’t know the etiquette for what happens after you maybe-almost-nearly try to kiss your best friend, doesn’t have any sort of rulebook for this sort of thing, so his fingers hover over the keyboard for a long few minutes, before finally typing something out.

[14:17] : do you think the rat from ratatouille would go for pickles and cheese

No, that’s stupid. Backspace. Try again.

[14:17] : i had fun at the lake!

God, that’s even worse. He tears his slice of cheese into pieces on the paper towel as he thinks.

[14:19] : hi michael what’s up

Delete.

[14:19] : hi michael so idk if you noticed from the lake or whatever but i definitely did want to kiss you on the pier and i have no idea when it happened but at some point i think i fell in love with you and i’m kind of fucking terrified of fucking this whole fucking thing up because i’m a fucking idiot who caught feelings for his best fucking friend right before fucking college fuck fuck fuckaghjfkdjfgh

_Deletedeletedelete-_

_“_ God _dammit,”_ Jeremy whisper-groans, dropping his head onto the cool marble countertop. All of this is so stupid. Michael’s his _best friend._ There’s no reason it should be this hard to text him, except-

Except Jeremy doesn’t want to fuck this up. Whatever they are, or aren’t, or might be- Jeremy doesn’t want to ruin it more than he might have already.

He takes a breath, sits up, and tries again.

[14:24] : do you wanna see a movie this week? c:

He sends it before he can overthink it. It’s a safe question. It’s fine. They’ve seen a thousand movies together, there’s no reason for this to be any different. Michael will text him back, and they’ll be right as rain, and everything will be fine.

His heart keeps screaming otherwise though, loud and unrelenting behind his ribs, so he puts the pickles and the cheese back into the fridge and climbs upstairs and into bed just so he doesn’t have to keep listening to the terrible noise it beats inside his chest.

 

* * *

**july eighteenth  
** (the living room)  
_5:27pm_

Michael hasn’t texted him back by morning. He doesn’t text him during lunch, or in the afternoon, or the next night. Doesn’t text or call him or come over even three days later, so Jeremy’s resigns himself to lounging around the house, anxious and bored and terrified and trying his best not to think about any of it.

Eventually, his dad eggs him out of his room and into watching a movie together. It’s some eighties film with an actor that Jeremy’s never heard of but apparently was a staple of his father’s childhood, so he’d settled in before Jeremy could protest for something else. It’s too hot in the living room, despite the blasting air conditioner, so he’s slumped on the couch in a thin t-shirt and his boxers, his phone face-up on his stomach.

His dad is laughing along with the film, where the actor is now splashing his drink in his face while an unimpressed flight attendant watches. Jeremy’s only half-paying attention, spending more time clicking his phone on, then off. Unlocking it, swiping aimlessly, before dropping it back onto his lap.

“It’s a _drinking_ problem!” His dad laughs after the man splashes another whiskey in his face, interrupting Jeremy’s ten thousandth iteration of _open, unlock, stare, lock, repeat._ “Are you getting this, Jer? Or are you on that phone of yours again?”

Right. They’re supposed to be watching together. He feels a little guilty for not paying attention, so he shrugs and mumbles an excuse. “S’just Michael.”

His dad must hear something in his voice, because he turns the volume down. “You two just spent two whole weeks in constant contact,” he says, and keeps going before Jeremy can respond. “I swear, for all the time you spend together, you and Michael are going to be be the only people in history who _end up_ conjoined at the hip instead of born like it.”

Jeremy frowns. “What does that even _mean?”_

“It means that you two can take a breather from each other,” his dad says. “Spend some time with your old man. You don’t have much of that left before you start school.”

“Don’t have much left with him, either,” Jeremy mumbles.

His dad gives him a look. “You’re going to different colleges, not different countries.”

“I guess.” Jeremy gnaws on his lip, twisting his phone in his lap and not looking at his dad. He admits quietly, “It’s just- we haven’t talked since we got home.”

There’s a pause. Jeremy resolutely doesn’t look up. Forces himself not to unlock his phone and check for a text he knows isn’t there. The couch dips as his dad shifts.

“You know,” his dad says contemplatively, almost carefully. “When you boys were five, you gave each other chicken pox.”

“I- _what?”_

“It’s true. You came home from school devastated that he hadn’t been there. And then begged us to take you over to his house so you could give him a get-well card that your whole class had signed. So we called the Mells and took you over, and in the thirty seconds between you racing to his bedroom and us walking up after you, you’d crawled into his bed to show him the card.” He chuckles to himself. “You came down with it two days later. We and the Mells had to take turns babysitting, because you refused to be apart.” He spins his drink, the ice sloshing but never quite going over the edge. “Your mother always thought you did it on purpose, and I don’t think she’s entirely wrong.”

Jeremy feels his cheeks heat up. “What does that have to do with anything?”

His dad hums and takes a sip of his drink. “It means that in all the years I’ve known you, and in all the years I’ve known Michael, I’ve never once doubted that you’d give each other chicken pox again.”

Jeremy doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, he shrugs and fiddles more with the phone in his lap. He can feel his dad staring at him, but he doesn’t give in, and eventually his dad unpauses the movie.

He wants to speak up, but he can’t. He can’t say anything because doesn’t know how to tell his dad that the opposite might be true. That he can’t stop checking his phone because of what _isn’t_ there, rather than what is.

That he might be losing Michael for reasons he barely even understands himself.  

 

* * *

**july nineteenth  
** (jeremy’s bedroom)  
_1:19am_

(On the fourth night back from the lake, Jeremy dreams of a hot mouth pressing kisses down his spine, hands running up his thighs. He dreams of a familiar sound moaning into his neck and the taste of sweat and skin and heat)

(He dreams of a warm dry palm pressed flat against his stomach in the cabin in the dark, sliding lower and gripping tighter, and a face he can’t see but a voice he can hear, a name he can’t say but a touch he’s spent a lifetime committing to memory)

(He dreams of breath gasped against his jaw and smooth hands on his sides, of insistent hips and open kisses and heavy gasps, pressing down hot and whole above him, until the dream is everywhere around him and inside him and he’s still begging for more, more, more, _please_ -)

(Of everything crashing apart, of feeling brighter than the light of the fridge, than the glitter of sun on water, than the heat in his stomach, and when he wakes up it’s with the memory of dark hair threaded through his fingers, of the bite of glasses on his skin)

(There’s feelings in him that are louder than his pounding heart and the scream of cicadas outside his window. Feelings that still won’t go away, that just settle further in when he tries to pull them apart. There’s just that awful sticky feeling that Jeremy can’t let go of, isn’t sure he even _wants_ to let go of, even if he can’t quite make sense of everything inside him, half asleep and too hot and static buzzing in his stomach and-)

(-and when he puts it all together, when the name clicks in his head and crowns itself king of the wreckage inside him, it’s all Jeremy can do to curl up on his side and stare at the star stickers pasted to his wall until the urge to cry mostly goes away)

(And then, because the universe spares no one, Michael texts him back)

 

* * *

**july twentieth  
** (garden state parkway)  
_12:13am_

When Michael picks Jeremy up to see a movie, it’s by some miraculous act of God, or the sheer willpower of not wanting to fuck things up, or maybe just the most stubborn parts of both, that they're able to ignore the weird, sticky tension that started at the lake. 

Well, mostly. 

They’re on their way home, and it’s raining so hard that it bounces up on the highway, leaving a misty blanket over the parkway lanes and reflecting their headlights back to them. The fog is so thick that Jeremy can barely see the lane markers, the air stained orange by the streetlamps that rush by and the windshield steam despite Michael’s constant fiddling with the air conditioner. Everything is blurred by the rain that comes faster than the windshield wipers can keep up with.

Jeremy’s got the directions up on his phone, but he’s torn between reading them off and making sure Michael doesn’t careen off the road. They’d gone to Ridgefield Park, because it’s the theater with reclinable seats and cheap popcorn, and it had seemed like a good idea until they walked outside after the movie and realized they still had to drive home.

They’d raced each other to the car, shrieking at the rain that soaked them both, and settled into the car damp and giddy and loud and miraculously, relievingly, incredibly _normal._ Normal enough that Jeremy thinks maybe he can pretend after all. Maybe he can act like nothing has changed until everything goes back to the way it was.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Michael says, glancing towards where Jeremy is sitting still-damp and stiff in the passenger seat as he merges into the middle lane. “But we’re not gonna die.”

Jeremy lets out a nervous laugh. “You sure about that one?”

“Absolutely,” Michael responds, looking over at him just as the highway takes a sharp right, and Michael skids out of his lane for a tense second. He readjusts, then flaps his hand around between them. “Scratch that,” he says. “There’s a thirty percent chance we die. What exit am I taking?”

“The one right before the mall,” Jeremy tells him. He lowers the volume of the song that’s playing and leans forward, squinting. He can’t read any of the highway signs through the rain. “Dude, how can you see right now?”

“Uh.” Michael pauses. The car slows down imperceptibly. “Superpowers?”

Jeremy snorts, but tightens his grip on the arm rest. “I can’t believe I’m gonna die in a PT Cruiser.”

“Hey!” Michael drops his arm to the armrest, and his forearm brushes against Jeremy’s as Michael fondly strokes the car. “Beatty might be a piece of shit, but she’s my piece of shit.”

Jeremy wants to say something back, but it’s hard to concentrate because Michael hasn’t moved his hand, even after he stopped reassuringly petting the car, and Jeremy can feel his arm still pressed against his own. He hates how just that simple touch feels like fire licking down his spine. He can’t help but press back the slightest bit, tempted to reach out and link his fingers through Michael’s, tempted to hold his hand until he can pull him close and keep him there.

Then, traitorously, his mind flashes to his dream the night before, of Michael’s hands sliding down his thighs, of his hands pressing-

“Hands on the wheel,” Jeremy croaks out instead, clearing his throat and shoving the thought of his head before his imagination can catch up. “The exit’s right up there.”

Michael hesitates, and Jeremy watches the lines in his arm tense and relax, as if torn between moving or not. But then he does what Jeremy says, wrapping his fingers tight against the steering wheel, and Jeremy moves his own hand into his lap. He curls his fingers into a fist and keeps them there because he doesn’t trust himself to do anything else.

They make it off the highway and onto the side streets and neither of them say anything for the rest of the ride home. The music fades from soft synths to a song with quick strings that Jeremy doesn’t recognize. Michael turns the song up, and Jeremy sneaks a glance to the side. He watches the darkened shops fly past the driver’s window, the hair salon, the dentist, the stupidly priced cupcake shop- and then he lets his gaze shift over to Michael.

He’s humming along to the song, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, his skin awash with orange under the glow of the passing streetlights. He’s wearing his old red hoodie for the first time since it got hot outside, because he always gets cool in movie theaters, and his eyes are soft and unworried, his still-damp hair falling haphazardly across his forehead, and Jeremy is suddenly struck with the realization that he can’t remember a time when he didn’t feel this way about Michael Mell.

He can’t remember a time when he didn’t feel this way about Michael Mell.

He knows now. There is no _way things were before._ There’s nowhere to go back _to,_ because he’s always felt like this. The warmth around Michael, the thrill from his laugh, the familiarity of his touch- that’s all been there long before Jeremy knew what it all meant.

Christ.

He turns the thought over in his mind, marveling at the truth of it. It’s a little terrifying, how easily the thought finds a home inside him. He looks at Michael and his easy smile and Jeremy can’t help but wonder how he didn’t see how _obvious_ it all feels, now. How clearly the feeling sits in every interaction with him that Jeremy can remember. How the fact sits steady and unwavering, scarily bright now that he’s uncovered it. Unmissable now that he’s named it.

“Hey,” Michael says, pulling up to Jeremy’s house and putting it into park. “We’re here.” He turns, only to catch Jeremy looking at him. He cocks his head, his brows furrowing, a laugh hidden in the curve of his mouth. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Nothing! Nothing, I just-” Jeremy stares back at Michael, frozen in spot. He pokes at the big and mushy and warm feeling in his chest, but it doesn’t move. He didn’t think it would. “I just-”

The words catch in his mouth, and Michael’s expression shifts into something that steals the words from his tongue. The look is expectant and earnest and just on the edge of a smile, of something warm and hopeful, and Jeremy suddenly feels too exposed under the weight of it. Too vulnerable. Nothing to shield him from what Michael might say except the pounding rain, the soft sound of the radio, the safe distance Jeremy has kept between them throughout the night.

None of that feels anything like enough to protect him now, though, should Michael ask again. Some part of Jeremy is terrified that he will, because he knows he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from telling him the truth. From letting the words spill out and push them past the point of no return.  

Some other part of Jeremy _wants_ Michael to ask again. Wants him to ask so Jeremy can tell him everything.

But then Michael blinks and punches Jeremy’s shoulder, that maybe-hopeful look in his eyes fading as he laughs. “If it’s ‘cause you don’t wanna get wet, I’m pretty sure I have an umbrella somewhere in the back, if you want it. Though it’s my little cousin’s, so I think it’s bright pink and Powerpuff girls themed.”

Jeremy blinks, his heart stumbling in his chest as it tries to keep up with what Michael’s saying. He swallows his wistfulness and says,  “Which Powerpuff girl?”

“Blossom, obviously.” Michael responds. He ducks his head and leans over to dig around in the back seat, and Jeremy can’t help but trace the line of skin that appears when Michael’s hoodie gets pushed up as he stretches. “The only one that matters.”

Jeremy snorts, dragging his eyes away from the smooth plane of Michael’s side back up to somewhere more suitable for their conversation. “This is Buttercup erasure. Nah, dude, I’m good.” He opens the car door only to be met with the sound of rain that roars into the car. He wrinkles his nose and prepares to run. “Ugh, I thought July was supposed to be _dry._ ”

Michael sits back up empty-handed and chewing on his lip, fiddling with the hem of his sweatshirt. “Hey, hey- wait, hold up. If you’re not gonna take the umbrella, then take this.”

“What are you-?” Jeremy begins, but Michael’s already pulling off the hoodie and tossing it at Jeremy. “Michael, what.”

“If you’re not gonna take Blossom, then I will,” Michael says, offering him a crooked smile. “Besides, what would your dad think of me if I brought you home soaking wet? Wouldn’t be very chivalrous of me.”

“Does that make me your mistress?”

“What's wrong with being my mistress?”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Jeremy says, feeling his face heat up, staring at the sweatshirt in his lap like it’s about to explode in his face. “Seriously though, it’s a five second walk. And I’m already soaked.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Just take it, dude. If you get sick that means I’m stuck alone with nobody to hang out with.”

Jeremy thinks about how Michael hadn’t texted him for four days. He thinks about chicken pox. Thinks about the rain, and his dad, and how badly he wants to stay and lean into him and confess everything, and says, “Okay, fine, yeah, sure.”

He pulls on the sweatshirt before he can think about it too hard and flips up the hood and thanks him for the ride and the movie and dashes up his walkway before Michael can say anything, before Michael can ask the question Jeremy wouldn’t be able to lie about. The storm soaks him almost instantly but he runs through it, sneakers splashing in the flood that once was his walkway, a terrible mixture of cold from the car’s AC and hot from the humidity and wet from the rain.

He bursts into his house and shuts the door behind him, waving Michael off through the glass as he pushes the hood back down. Michael waves back, and Jeremy waits until the red glow of his taillights disappears around the block, and only then does he let himself collapse. He slides down against the door until he’s sitting on the floor, heart pounding from more than just the run inside.

He thinks he knows what Michael meant now, at the lake. Michael’s right there, he’s _always_ right there, but Jeremy misses him too. Misses when this _thing_ between them wasn’t a reason for him to run.

He presses the sleeve to his face and breathes it in, letting the soft smell of cinnamon and detergent fill his lungs. It aches, the familiarity of it, how none of this means what Jeremy wants it to. How close Michael seems and yet so far away at the same time.

Jeremy sits on the floor against the door, his house dark and quiet except for the sound of angry rain, and thinks about how wrong he was about everything feeling remarkably like it always has, after all.

Lets himself think, just for now, buried in Michael’s sweatshirt in the dark of his house, about what it might be like if Michael loved him back.

 

* * *

  **july twenty-second  
** (michael’s basement)  
_3:28pm_

The summer storm rages on.

Jeremy returns Michael’s sweatshirt two days later, but indulges himself enough to wear it as he walks over to his house, pulling it off only when Michael had answered the door. He hands it over and tries his best to pretend he hadn’t spent the past two days pathetically curled up in it, until it didn’t even smell like him anymore

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” Michael had blurted when he opened the door, speaking over the sound of the rain. “You walked here?”

“Dad’s got the car and s’good at keeping me dry,” Jeremy had mumbled, almost overwhelmed by the weight of Michael’s gaze. He pulled it over his shoulders and handed it over. “Can we smoke?”

“I would’ve picked you up,” Michael had said, raising an eyebrow and stepping aside with a sweeping arm to let Jeremy in. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy responded, walking past him and heading towards the basement. “Just ansty. I think it’s the rain.”

Michael followed behind him, clapping a hand on his shoulder as they padded down the stairs. “Well, my dude. I can definitely fix one of those things.”

Which is how Jeremy ends up sprawled on Michael’s bed two bowls later, pleasantly stoned and laying half on top of Michael as they watch The World’s Most Extreme Homes on Michael’s laptop, which is propped on Michael’s stomach.

They’d started off side by side, but it’s no surprise that Jeremy had gotten stupid and touchy the second the high kicked in, and eventually Michael noticed his twiddling midway through their first bowl, enough for him to laugh and pull him down on top of him.

Now Jeremy’s curled up at Michael’s side, his head resting on Michael’s stomach, only inches away from the screen. They haven’t spoken in a few minutes, but it’s comfortable. Jeremy times his breathing in rhythm with Michael’s, and lets himself dissolve in to the fuzzy and quiet world around him.

It’s nice. It’s more than nice, actually. He could probably fall asleep like this, with just the gentle rise and fall of Michael’s chest and the sound of rain pounding against the tiny basement windows, which are open to help air out the smell of smoke.

The basement smells like damp earth, like midsummer and old wood. Jeremy buries his face deeper into Michael’s chest and inhales the smell of him, lets the scent curl in his lungs and stay there. The act of it is almost enough to believe this is something else entirely, so he lets himself pretend. He pretends he’s curled up against Michael for real, that this all means exactly what he wants it to.

Somewhere far away, Michael’s hand is running mindlessly through Jeremy’s hair, sending pleasant shivers down his neck and back. That feels nice too. Really isn’t helping him stay awake, though, but he can’t bring himself to care about the way his eyelids are drooping when the world feels so soft and nice around him.  

The Most Extraordinary Homes starts the next episode. They’re showing a house that used a dismantled jetliner as a roof, the wings stretching out against the mountains, light streaming through the windows and reflecting golden on the endless hills.

“I think I could fly better than that plane,” Jeremy murmurs, his voice half-muffled by Michael’s chest.

Michael tangles his fingers in Jeremy’s hair, pulling lightly. “You can’t fly at all.”

“Dunno.” Jeremy snickers. “I’d say I’m already pretty high.”

“Fuck off,” Michael laughs, his chest vibrating with the noise. His hand stills on Jeremy’s scalp, and Jeremy has to clamp down on the whine that threatens to tumble from his throat. “Hey, wait. You know what I just realized?”

He reaches over and pauses the show before rolling over to look at Michael, whose eyes are red and wide and staring woefully at Jeremy, who can’t do anything but stare back. “Mm?”

“We’re not gonna be able to get high together soon,” Michael murmurs. His hand drops to curve around Jeremy’s hair, pushing errant curls behind his ear. “We’re gonna have to smoke like, long-distance.”

The thought is jarring, but Jeremy’s too focused on how the world slows down when Michael traces the skin by his temple.

“Pretty sure that’s called shotgunning,” Jeremy deadpans.

Michael snorts, flicking gently at his ear. “Shut up. For real though. Jer, what if we never smoke together again? Or hang out? Or anything that we do now?”

He pushes his hand through the hair on Jeremy’s forehead, then drops his hand to rub gently at his nape, and this time Jeremy can’t help the contented hum that pushes itself up from his lungs. He turns his head and tries to commit to memory how he feels right now, sleepy and warm and at home.

“Won’t let that happen,” Jeremy murmurs into the fabric of Michael’s shirt, and he means it. “I’d miss it too much.”

Michael flops his head back on the pillow, humming something low and sweet, the fight gone out of him.

He resumes playing with Jeremy’s hair and confesses, “Me too.”

Jeremy draws absentminded patterns onto Michael’s free arm and turns over the idea in his head. The problem is, now that Jeremy thinks about it, Michael’s not entirely wrong to be worried. Jeremy’s heard the horror stories. He’s spent the past four years watching people older than him have college tear apart even the best of friends, watching distance stretch people further than they could bounce back from. He’s seen friends fade out of posted pictures and forgotten birthday posts. Watched alumni come back and overheard conversations of _oh, her? yeah, we don’t talk much anymore. we just grew apart, I guess._

Jeremy can’t help but wonder how many of them gave each other chicken pox, too.

He pokes Michael’s stomach. “Lemme trace something and then you guess what I write.”

Michael hums. “Go for it.”

Jeremy turns his head and uses his flattened palm to smooth the fabric out against Michael’s stomach. Then he lightly traces a few warm-up rounds onto Michael’s skin. Michael guesses his name, and then Jeremy’s birthday, and then their high school. Guesses _weed_ and _heart_ and _cloud._ Even guesses _godzilla_ and _rainbow._

Then Jeremy hesitates. Just long enough for Michael to prop himself up on an elbow and ask, “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy replies. “Just thinking. I’m okay now. Guess this one.”

Very slowly, he crooks his finger and begins working through a single four-letter word. Michael’s breathing slows. Jeremy can feel it under his cheek.

“G,” Michael says, his voice soft, his fingers stilling on Jeremy’s scalp.

Jeremy nods. Traces two more letters. Michael’s breath hitches when Jeremy skims around his belly button.

“Two O’s,” Michael murmurs.

Jeremy hums in agreement. He traces the final letter, and a punctuation mark. Michael’s breath shallows. Jeremy can feel that too, as well as the way Michael’s hands tighten in his hair. Heat simmers in Jeremy’s spine when Michael pulls his hair, just the slightest amount. Just enough for a quiet noise to catch in Jeremy’s chest.

“G-O-O-D-?” Michael spells slowly, his breath hardly more than a whisper.

Jeremy sits up, flattening his palm on Michael’s stomach for leverage, and he can’t help but memorize the way Michael’s breath stutters as he does so. His hand falls from Jeremy’s scalp to grip his arm, fingers curling around his wrist.

“Good?” Jeremy asks, softly, looking at Michael, hoping he gets what he’s trying to say.

Michael’s cheeks are stained red. His own hair is a mess from the bed, his eyes still red and wide. He’s breathing harder than normal too, and Jeremy can’t help but watch his throat as he swallows and works through his words. Michael lightly runs his thumb over Jeremy’s inner wrist, and he can’t help but want to climb over and stake his claim in more permanent ways than traced letters.

“Good,” Michael breathes, and Jeremy smiles.

 

* * *

  **july twenty-ninth  
** (the trampoline in michael’s backyard)  
_10:58pm_

When the storm clears, tradition begins.

Once a year, Michael’s parents invite the whole Mell family clan over for a midsummer barbecue. They also invite the nicer neighbors, family friends, and colleagues from work. It’s an ordeal that usually lasts the whole day, with Michael and Jeremy usually getting roped into helping cook or clean or set up whatever else Michael’s mom needs help with.

It’s always fun though, and Jeremy enjoys the warm chaos that occupies most of his day. It’s hours of weaving through various people in the Mell’s tiny kitchen and chopping carrots and competing against Michael to see how many mini hot dogs they can steal before someone notices. It’s dashing barefoot in and out of the house through the backdoor, carrying heavy trays of uncooked food. It’s saying hi to people Jeremy only sees once a year, of keeping the smaller children away from the fire pit, of sneaking Hard Lemonades from the cooler by the grill and stealing away with Michael to the side yard to drink them just out of view of the mass group of people.

It’s lighting the Tiki Torches and shepherding the kids into the tiny forest just beyond the backyard to find perfect marshmallow sticks, the path lit only by the purple glow of dusk. It’s cramming around the firepit and making snarky commentary while the adults talk about politics, while parents ask them about college and their love-lives, while the two of them watch the sparks fly into the air and disappear amidst the trees.

Jeremy’s favorite part, though, is when the night dies down, after most of the crowd has gone home. The remaining adults sip their wine and talk in low tones, Michael’s smaller cousins curled up on their parents chests, sleepy and exhausted from running around all evening.

When the music changes from loud throwbacks to soft melodies, he and Michael climb onto the trampoline that stands a dozen or so yards from where everybody else is talking. They fall flat on their backs, heads almost touching, and stare at the stars.

They always seem brightest on nights like this, even from behind the dogwood tree and the firepit smoke that paints the sky. They watch the embers from the distant fire meet the sky and introduce false stars to the smoky backdrop, and yet they can still parse out the barest hints of the Milky Way just beyond the smoke.

One of Jeremy’s hands rests on his stomach, the other flat at his side as they talk. He can feel his hair static-clinging to the trampoline, the way they rock lightly up and down in the summer breeze. They don’t talk about anything in particular, but that’s not why Jeremy likes this part of the night best.

He lifts his arm and points to a constellation. “That’s the Big Dipper, isn’t it?”

“Think so,” Michael says. “That’s the only one I know, at least.”

Jeremy laughs and drops his arm. “Me too.” He fiddles with a leaf that’s fallen onto the trampoline, slowly picks it apart. “My mom used to say you can always find your way home through those two stars.”

“Which ones?”

Jeremy shifts so he can take Michael’s arm and press it alongside his own to point to the two stars. “Those two. You can follow those straight up-” he tilts Michael’s arm to match, so they’re both pointing to the same star. “And there’s Polaris.”

Michael drops their arms, taking Jeremy’s with his. “How do you find anything with it?”

“It’s always pointing north.” Jeremy turns his head to look at Michael, who’s still looking at the sky. His face is awash with starlight, looking calmer than Jeremy’s used to him being. “She always said it’s the one star that everybody can see.”

Michael looks over at him, and Jeremy doesn’t flinch away this time. Instead, he holds Michael’s gaze and lets him look. Lets him search whatever he’s looking for _,_ hopes that it doesn’t look as terrifyingly clear on his face as it feels inside him, leaking through his chest and buzzing in his bones. A slow shiver melts down his neck as Michael looks at him, and Jeremy’s left to figure out what this _means,_ if it means anything at all.

But Michael’s eyes aren’t prying. They’re just clear, as if letting Jeremy read whatever _he_ wants to find as well. They’re not hiding anything, like Jeremy always feels like he is these days. But Jeremy doesn’t even know what he’s looking for, still too afraid to address the facts he’s spent the past few weeks rearranging, so he just stares back and hopes that Michael finds enough for the both of them.

Michael breaks the gaze first, tilting his head back up to face the sky. Jeremy keeps staring after him, letting himself trace the features he didn’t dare let himself memorize earlier. He follows the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the rise and fall of his chin and jaw.

And then Michael points to the sky, right up to Polaris, his arm hardly more than a silhouette against the light of the bonfire.

“I like that,” he says thoughtfully, and drops his hand back to the trampoline so his pinky just barely brushes against Jeremy’s.

The touch freezes time around Jeremy, his whole world spinning around the point of contact and what he just said, but Michael’s hand pressed against his own doesn’t feel like reconfiguration. It feels like reassurance. It feels like maybe Jeremy’s not alone in this. Like maybe, just maybe, he can let himself believe in the world he’s been trying to rebuild.

“But I think,” Michael says softly, very slowly, like he’s picking his words with care. “I think I could find my way here without it.”

Jeremy feels like the breath was just punched out of his lungs, unfiltered light spilling in and taking its place. He didn’t know he could fit all this inside him. He doesn’t know how he ever lived without it.

As slowly as Michael had spoken, Jeremy pushes his hand closer. Then, even slower than that, so Michael can feel it coming, he interlocks his own pinky through Michael’s and keeps it there, resting right between them, unmoving.

They don’t speak much of anything after that. They just listen to the murmur of voices and the crackle of the fire, and watch the world move around the star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again i'm laying down my life for mika, who not only let me steal her idea but listened to me screech about this fic for years and years at all hours of the night and helped me make it better than i ever could dream of on my own. 
> 
> and also, love to debi who reads over my shit even when she's in midterm hell. i honestly do not know where i'd be without either of them. 
> 
> UPDATE 4/6/18: [please look at this GORGEOUS fanart of the trampoline scene by gucciiclouds!! ](https://gucciiclouds.tumblr.com/image/172543268725)
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](http://danisnotofire.tumblr.com). comments and kudos do more than you will ever know.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was written over the course of a year, in five separate countries spanning three separate continents, in various states of homesickness/happiness/nostalgia/stress/sadness/excitement/loneliness. i've learned a lot about what home is/means since i started this fic a little over a year ago, and it's been a wild ride writing to reflect that. thank you for sticking with me and this fic even when it seemed like i'd never come back. it's the first chaptered piece i've finished since 2010. please treat her well!
> 
> 'til next time, y'all! thanks for the journey.

* * *

**august first** __  
(the swim club)  
_12:24am_

August seeps in like a heatwave and offers its fair share of them, too.

They decide to sneak into the swim club a little after midnight. It’s technically closed, but it’s something they used to do a lot in previous years, on hot summer nights when they were filled with the same reckless, restless energy that buzzes in them now.

So when Jeremy suggests it, halfway through yet another movie marathon that neither of them are really paying attention to, Michael laughs in surprise but agrees. Grinning, Jeremy grabs his keys and they follow the age-old routine of driving across town, trekking through the brief stretch of woods surrounding the club, then climbing over the shitty chain link fence and stepping towards the glowing moonlit pool in giddy silence, half-afraid of being heard, and half-thrilled by the secrecy.

“Dude wait,” Jeremy hisses, stepping off the grass and onto the concrete ledge, which is still warm from the day’s heat. Out here, there are no shadows to hide them. Just glimmering water and the open sky above them, the full moon lighting up the imposing clubhouse across the pool. Jeremy eyes it suspiciously. “What if we get caught?”

“We’re not gonna,” Michael says, dipping a toe into the water. “Also, for the record, this was _your_ idea.”

Jeremy opens his mouth to respond, but it’s at that moment that Michael decides to take off his shirt. The sight of him, bare-chested and flushed with remnants from the day’s heat, immediately dries up any chance at words in Jeremy’s throat. He wants to step closer, wants to see if he could deepen that flush, with his mouth, or his hands, and there’s a reckless moment where he almost does, his fears of trespassing forgotten in favor of the lithe planes of Michael’s back.  

But then he realizes how obvious he must look, staring at Michael like some sort of freak, and so he coughs and ducks his head to hide how his own face must be heating up. He kicks off his sandals and pushes past Michael before either of them can say anything, leaping into the pool and letting himself sink deeper than necessary in the hopes that the cool water will chase away the heat that burns his cheeks.

When he pops up, he pushes the hair out of his eyes and eyes Michael, who’s still staring at him incredulously from the ledge. Jeremy taunts, “What, you chickening out?”

Michael blanches. “God, you little—”

Jeremy laughs, because Michael doesn’t bother finishing his sentence. Instead, he rushes forward and jumps, plunging into the pool right next to Jeremy. He whoops when he surfaces, flipping his hair and sending water spraying across the pool. “Oh _Christ,_ it’s cold. Why is it cold. It’s fucking July.”

“Technically August, I think. Past midnight,” Jeremy says, kicking up his legs so he can float on his back. “I think it feels good. Way better than sweating in your basement.”

Michael snorts, shifting so he’s floating right beside Jeremy. His arm brushes alongside Jeremy’s for a brief moment, and he concedes, “No argument there.”

They spend a solid half hour in the water, mostly floating, occasionally ducking underwater to see who could hold their breath longer or get further across the pool without breaking for air. The night has turned sweet and cool, and Jeremy finds himself calmed by the orchestra of crickets and cicadas humming around them, only broken by the distant sound of the occasional car driving past on the far-off road in between his and Michael’s gentle splashing and soft laughter.

When they get out, Jeremy avoids looking at Michael until he pulls his shirt back on. Even with the chilly breeze against his damp skin, the warmth that had pooled in his stomach hasn’t gone away. He’s half-afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop looking, this time, if he came face-to-face with a soaked and moonlit Michael only a foot or two away. It’s better not to take the chance at all.

In fact, it’s easier to just avoid looking directly at Michael altogether, which he does for the entire walk back to the car, concentrating instead on not tripping on the worn forest path. The quiet of the forest lays heavy over them, and they don’t speak until they’re in the car. It’s only when Jeremy pulls onto the road that either of them say anything at all.

“You were right,” Michael says, fiddling with the radio. “It is past midnight. Happy August.”

Jeremy laughs. “Can’t believe we already wasted two-thirds of our summer.”

Michael makes a noise. “I wouldn’t call it wasted,” he says.

“What would you call it then?”

Michael’s quiet for a long moment. Long enough for Jeremy to pull onto his street, and in front of his house. He puts the car in park and turns to Michael, who looks like he’s still considering. Jeremy wishes he’d taken the long way home.

“The only way I’d wanna spend my last summer before college,” Michael grins, and dips his head to unbuckle his seatbelt. “Cramming in as much time with my best bud as possible.”

Michael’s hand hovers on the car door, but he hesitates. Then, instead of getting out, he leans in towards Jeremy. Jeremy’s heart rockets into his throat as his brain unhelpfully supplies all the potential implications of Michael getting this close to him in the dark at night.

He’s unable to tear his eyes away from Michael’s easy bashful grin, and suddenly he’s close enough for Jeremy to see how his damp hair matts and falls across his forehead, even in the deep shadows of the car, where the only light is from the soft red glow from the front console.

But all Michael does his reach past him to click the unlock button, but the sound of the doors unlocking is drowned out by the overwhelming roar in Jeremy’s chest. Michael’s throat is inches in front of Jeremy as he leans over, and Jeremy is suddenly overcome with the devastating urge to lean forward and press his lips to Michael’s pulse point. To bite down and pull him close, and swallow all the noises that Michael would make.

Jeremy grips the gear shift, his mouth dry. It feels like an eternity before Michael leans away,  punching Jeremy’s shoulder lightheartedly and laughing as he does so.

“Time enjoyed wasting, and all that,” he says.  

Before Jeremy can even fully process what just happened, Michael’s opening the car door and calling out a quick goodbye, slamming the door shut behind him and moving towards his house, leaving Jeremy sitting alone in utter silence.

Jeremy wants. He wants so badly to scramble out of the car and follow Michael inside and drag him back towards him, to wrap his fingers in Michael’s wet t-shirt and press himself tight against him, let himself look and touch and do all the things he’s been trying so hard not to do. He wants to not have to look away when Michael takes off his shirt, to see just how much time they could enjoy wasting together.

But then he blinks, and he realizes he can still smell the chlorine. He can still smell the chlorine, and his hair is damp, and his eyes burn.

Everything burns.

“Hey,” he says quietly, to himself, staring at the steering wheel as he watches Michael walk up the pathway to his house through the corner of his eye. “So.” His voice doesn’t come out quite right, so he clears his throat and tries again.

“Hey, so, it’s fine, and you don’t need to say anything,” he says. “But I’m—   _fuck,_ this is so stupid.” He pauses, turns his head just in time to see Michael waving at him from just inside, hardly more than a silhouette against the warm orange light of his foyer.

Jeremy waves back.

Michael disappears inside his house.

“I’m in love with you,” Jeremy confesses miserably to his empty car. “I’m head over fucking heels in love with you.” He wraps his fingers tighter around the steering wheel. “I’m in love with my best friend, and I’m getting even shittier at hiding it, and it doesn’t—,” his voice breaks, and he closes his eyes and slumps in his seat. He thinks about the trampoline, about the tracing game, and forces himself to keep going. To finish saying it out loud, even just this once. “And it doesn’t even _matter_ if you like me back, because it’s already August and I don’t know how to tell you. _If_ I should tell you.”

He breathes out, slowly, through his nose. Loosens and tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

“I _want_ to tell you,” he admits quietly, his voice small and wobbly even to his own ears. “I think that’s the worst part. I want to tell you more than anything.”

He drops his head against the wheel, but his head hits the wheel so hard that the car beeps, quick and loud, shocking him back up.

_“Fuck.”_

 

* * *

**august third  
** (a &p)  
_9:45pm_  

They make it to A&P right before closing.  

It’s always jarring, stepping out of the muggy summer night into the too-bright fluorescent store, white tiled floor gleaming with the night’s last round of cleaning. It seems just a little fake, Jeremy thinks, at least compared to the outside world. In here, it’s as if they’ve stepped out of time, out of reality, into a place where it’s just him, and Michael, and the rows and rows of summer vegetables stretching endlessly before them.

The lights strain against Jeremy’s eyes as he and Michael make their way to the frozen food section. It’s far too cold, and the air-conditioning freezes the hair on Jeremy’s legs as he runs his hands up and down his arms, trying to chase away the chill.

“You know what’s wild?” Michael brings up out of nowhere, fiddling with the baby-seat straps on the shopping cart. “You leave for school in exactly two weeks.”

Jeremy picks up a bag of lime tortilla chips and doesn’t meet Michael’s gaze. “Yeah. Guess so.”

Michael nudges him. “You excited?”

It’s too nonchalant. They haven’t talked about this, not really, not in depth. About school, about summer ending, about saying goodbye.

Jeremy shrugs. “Yeah. I guess.” He pauses, then puts the chips in the cart and admits, “It still doesn’t feel like it’s actually happening.”

Michael snorts. “Yeah, you’ve only spent the past six months preparing for it. I’m pretty sure you got your shower shoes in like, December.”

“They were on sale!” Jeremy shoves him gently with his shoulder. “My dad got excited. Sue me.”  

“Yeah, who wouldn’t get psyched about avoiding foot fungus?” Michael quips. “But nah, dude. I feel you. I don’t leave until September. What am I gonna do when you’re gone? Nobody’s gonna be left here for me to talk to.”

They turn the corner into the dairy aisle. It seems to stretch down forever, rows and rows of milk cartons and ice cream pints hidden behind frosted glass. Goosebumps prick at Jeremy’s skin, and he’s suddenly too aware of how he’s only wearing shorts and flip-flops and a t-shirt stained with Mountain Dew. It doesn’t feel like enough, it never does, but he always forgets how cold this aisle gets until he’s actually there.

“Come visit me,” Jeremy says, a little more desperate than he’d wanted it to sound, because it’s only half a joke. Part of him wants Michael to say yes, to come visit Jeremy and never leave, because how the fuck is he supposed to say goodbye to the one person who he’s never had to say it to? “There’s not gonna be anybody for me to talk to there, either.”

“That’s not true.” Michael pulls down a carton of 2%, punches his shoulder. “You’re gonna show up and knock ‘em dead. I guarantee it. It’s college, dude. Everyone’s gonna wanna make friends. You’ll have your pick of way cooler and better people than me.”

 _I don’t want everyone,_ Jeremy wants to say. _I just want you. I’d pick you every time. Let me pick you._

Instead, he swallows the words down and wraps his hands tighter around the shopping cart. “I guess.” He nods towards the Ben and Jerry’s. “Should we get a pint for the road?”

Michael grins over at him. “You just read my mind.”

 

* * *

**august fourth** __  
(the bus ride home from new york city)  
_10:12pm_

Jeremy is definitively, absolutely, without-a-doubt going to die, because Michael has decided to fall asleep on him.

They’d been on the bus maybe ten minutes, freshly out of the Lincoln tunnel and on the ramp to the Weehawken highway. Michael had put on his headphones the second they’d sat down on the bus, tipping his head back and conking out pretty much immediately with little more than a, “I’m fuckin’ beat. Wake me up when we get home?”

Jeremy nodded and turned to look out the window. He’s always loved this view, the nighttime skyline lit up across the Hudson, visible for only brief moments before disappearing behind rows of trees.

But then Michael had shifted, causing his head to fall on Jeremy’s shoulder. Which also would’ve been fine, except sleep-Michael had nuzzled into the crook of Jeremy’s neck, his lips pressed lightly against the curve of Jeremy’s throat into his shoulder, and Jeremy had promptly stopped breathing.

It’s been about five minutes. At first, Jeremy sat stock-still, mentally begging for Michael to realize what he was doing and sit back up. But now it’s clear that isn’t going to happen, and unless Jeremy _does_ something he’s probably either going to die from a heart attack or do something he regrets.

So he pokes him.

“Michael,” Jeremy says softly, nudging him. When nothing happens, he nudges him again. _“Michael,”_ he says. “C’mon, dude. We’re almost home.”

“ _Almost_ isn’t home,” Michael mumbles, curling even closer towards him. “Lemme sleep ‘til then.”

Jeremy almost jolts at the vibration that runs down his throat, down his spine when Michael’s lips move against his skin. It’s a thunderclap that goes straight to where it shouldn’t, and Jeremy’s mouth goes dry at the sensation.

“Okay,” Jeremy croaks, because he doesn’t think he’s capable of doing anything else. Michael hums appreciatively and Jeremy squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore every image his brain tantalizingly conjures up as Michael hums into his collarbone.

He takes a deep breath and considers his options.

He could shove Michael off, but Michael would probably get annoyed and he doesn’t want to deal with a cranky Michael in addition to a tired Michael. He could poke him again, but he’s not sure he can take any more of Michael speaking into his skin without doing something stupid, like dragging him up and kissing him quiet, where maybe he’d hum into Jeremy’s mouth for a change-

Another breath. More options. He could also just tell him to move, but-

But.

Jeremy risks a look down. Michael’s face is slack with sleep, his hair messily peeking out from underneath his hood, his arms crossed against his chest but his fingers loose. His chin is burrowed into Jeremy’s shoulder and his whole body is half-twisted towards Jeremy for warmth.

He looks relaxed, calm and still in a way he never is when he’s awake, all his limitless kinetic energy reverting to absolute stillness in sleep, save for the slow rise and fall of his chest.  

Jeremy’s heart clenches, because the reality is that he doesn’t want him to move. Some small, secret part of himself is giddy to have Michael is curled up next to him, so close that he could just reach out and wrap him in his arms, slow and easy. Some part of him gets a terrible thrill out of getting to have him like this, so close and so warm and so _his._

And then the ache sets in, because- Michael’s not his. Not really. And no matter how many times he’s already repeated it to himself, it’s always devastating to remember again. He can’t pull Michael closer. He’s wrong for letting himself have this at all. Because he’s already taking more from Michael than what any best friend should.

Because he’s only making it that much harder for when he has to say goodbye.

So he’ll wake Michael up when they get home. He’ll paste on another smile and usher him into the car. He’ll go home and wake up tomorrow and keep pretending like there isn’t glass inside his lungs. He’ll keep maintaining this in-between balance they’ve fallen into since the lakehouse. Really, he will. He doesn’t have a choice.

Right now, though, he risks another look. He lets his eyes trace the soft slope of Michael’s nose down to his cupid’s bow, to his lips. And then gently, slowly, he tips his own head to rest on Michael’s.

He lets himself be selfish, even if it hurts, for just this one last time.

 

* * *

**august seventh** __  
(the tunnel underneath the train tracks)  
_8:36pm_

 It was Michael’s idea, to find their initials.

They’d graffitied them years ago onto a wall in a tunnel that ran underneath the local train tracks, the ones right by the park near Michael’s house. They couldn’t have been more than thirteen, loud and restless, bored after school on a day when neither of them wanted to go home. Jeremy doesn’t remember much, just the quick act of it; a train roaring overhead, thunderous and all-consuming in its noise, Michael wordlessly tossing him the spray paint can before turning to keep watch.

There’s no train overhead this time when they trod towards the tunnel, but the soft summer quiet is consuming in it’s own way. The evening sky is deep and blue and Michael has to use his phone flashlight to light the way as they tread down the short clover-lined path.

It’s only a forty second walk past the park to the tunnel, directly into the measly pine forest, and it doesn’t take them very long at all to get to the tunnel itself. It’s a kind of creepy tunnel, the sort of place that looks better in memory than in person, cutting directly through the train-track hill as a shortcut to downtown, unevenly floored with rotting planks of wood.

Michael lifts his flashlight, revealing years worth of graffiti along the crumbling walls. He lets out a low whistle as he walks in.

“Woah,” he says, slowly moving his light from side to side, his voice echoing across the stone. “I forgot how fuckin’ haunted this place was.”

Jeremy hesitates at the entrance, taking out his own phone flashlight and shining it along the sloping entrance. He lifts it to the pebbled rocks, and the glint of the metal tracks reflects back at him from the top of the hill, about ten feet above them. “Do you remember when we used to put pennies on the tracks to see them get flattened?”

Michael snorts, and the flashlight turns towards him. Jeremy can’t see Michael’s face from behind the light. “I remember that time you put a rock down and derailed the train.”

“Hey!” Jeremy can feel his cheeks heating up, but he smiles anyway. “That was _one time,_ and we still don’t know if that was actually us- _”_

“Us? Definitely you, dude.”

Jeremy rolls his eyes, but steps forward into the tunnel, stepping towards Michael’s side of the flashlight so it won’t blind him anymore. He blinks his eyes to readjust and pushes Michael’s arm down, so the light points at their toes. “Okay, maybe so, but you were definitely an accomplice.”

Michael snorts, then says affectionately, “Yeah. Like always.”

Michael nudges him, and when Jeremy blinks again he can see enough of Michael to recognize his grin, dorky and fond. It sparks something warm and bright in Jeremy’s chest, and he thinks he must have that same look, with the way his own smile spreads across his face.

Neither of them say anything for a moment too long, just long enough for the ache to start creeping back in, so Jeremy swallows and jerks his chin towards the wall. He steps away, dragging his heart back into its rightful place, and lifts his flashlight. “Do you remember where we put them?”

“What?” Michael says. “Oh. Our initials? No, do you?”

Jeremy forces himself to keep looking at the wall instead of looking back at him. “Wasn’t it somewhere over here?” As if on cue, his eye catches on a small bit of blue, about knee-height, surrounded by green and yellow spray paint. Sure enough, there stood their initials, faded from years worth of wind and wear, but still visible amidst the other graffiti. “Ha, yeah, holy shit dude, look!”

“No _way_ ,” Michael laughs. He crouches down next to Jeremy and shines his phone light on it too.“It’s smaller than I remember.”

Jeremy snickers, then deadpans, “That’s what she said.”   

Michael snorts and falls onto Jeremy, ribbing him with his elbow. “Strong words from somebody who thought we were gonna get caught and sent to Juvie for all this _vandalism_.”

“Shut up! That was a totally valid concern!”

“Would’ve been more valid if we hadn’t come here to smoke weed like, three days later,” Michael teases.

Jeremy pushes his elbow back against Michael’s, snorting instead of bothering with a reply. He turns, aiming for a better angle to mess with him, and reaches out with his other hand to find all the places he knows will make Michael pay.

He pokes Michael’s belly, which he knows is his weak spot, and it works- Michael ends up rocketing into a standing position to get away from him, his involuntary-cackled warnings echoing throughout the tunnel and into the night air, _“Hey-!”_

Jeremy stands up too, and reaches out to tickle him some more as Michael tries to push him away. But then Jeremy looks up, just as he pushes his fingers right into the crook of Michael’s neck, just as Michael’s hands wrap around Jeremy’s wrists, and he realizes he’s closer to Michael than he thought.

A lot closer.

In fact, they’re so close that even in the dark, Jeremy can feel Michael’s breath on his cheek. He can feel the way Michael’s grip tightens on his arms and how they both suddenly go very still.

For a split second, he thinks he sees Michael’s eyes flicker down to his mouth, though it’s not so much seeing as it is noticing the movement of the whites of his eyes in the dark. He can’t really see Michael, but he hears his breath, fast and shallow, still breathy from his laughs. Except, he’s not laughing anymore.

Neither of them are.

Without thinking, Jeremy shifts his hand on Michael’ neck, smoothing his palm out against the skin. Jeremy hears Michael’s breath hitch, and if he were to move his thumb the slightest amount, he thinks he’d be able to feel Michael’s pulse. Instead, he feels Michael swallow. Feels Michael’s fingertips clench on Jeremy’s wrists.

“Jer,” Michael breathes, almost like a warning, his voice a lot lower than it was twenty seconds ago.

Jeremy inhales, then exhales out a shaky, “Michael.”

There’s a long pause, during which Jeremy doesn’t dare to move. He doesn’t dare look away, or get closer, or do anything except hold whatever it is they’re doing now.  

Then, instead of answering, Michael tugs Jeremy just a step closer, but doesn’t drop his hands from where they’re still wrapped around his wrists. They’re basically the same height, but Michael’s always been the barest amount taller. Just tall enough so that when Michael takes his own step closer, and when Jeremy jerks his head up in surprise, he finds that he can feel Michael’s breath on his own skin. Sparks shoot up his spine at the feeling, and he has to swallow down a whimper when he realizes Michael isn’t moving away.

For a dizzying second, he thinks Michael is going to lean down and close the distance, and he goes breathless with the idea of maybe, just maybe, getting to have this for real. It emboldens him, keeps him from running away, keeps him from giving into the terrifying swooping inside him that’s telling him to play it safe, just like he always has, and run very, very far away.

But Michael doesn’t move any closer, either. He just stands there, his breath still hot on Jeremy’s skin, and doesn’t move another inch. A shudder goes down Jeremy’s spine, and he’s frozen in spot, helpless under Michael gaze, his touch. He can’t move. He wants to move. He wants to nuzzle forward and close that last bit of space between them, because this _can’t_ all be in his head, not anymore.

Then-

The cargo train blares its horn.  

It’s impossibly loud in the otherwise silent night, and Michael flinches back, stepping away in surprise as the noise splits through the air. Michael’s hands drop from Jeremy’s wrists and shoot up to run through his hair, and even through the darkness, Jeremy can see him rock back on his heels.

But for once, Jeremy doesn’t panic. Instead, still brazened by the memory of Michael’s breath on his skin, by possibility itself, he pushes down the buzzing underneath his skin and smothers the light breaking in his chest so he can think.

He looks at Michael, whose dim shape is standing a little too still, trying not to squirm, and he thinks about the summer. Thinks about the lake and the tracing game and all the summers before this one, all the times he felt this before he realized exactly what _this_ was.

And then he lets himself be brave. Lets himself be selfish for more than just a stolen moment.

Jeremy motions with his chin towards the tunnel entrance, and starts picking his way through the darkness towards it. Michael tilts his head, questioning and still visibly nervous, but he follows Jeremy out into the night air anyway.

Jeremy stumbles a little bit on his way up the hill, but Michael’s there every time he trips, keeping him steady, his grip strong and assuring on Jeremy’s arm. Jeremy can almost hear his questions in the way Michael’s gaze falls heavy on his neck, but he doesn’t say anything.

They stop a little bit aways from the tracks, and the wind from the oncoming train whips Jeremy’s hair as it approaches. He holds his hand out to help Michael, who grabs it and scrambles up next to him, moving to stand at his side.

They don’t say anything, not bothering to attempt words over the impossible roar of the train only a few dozen feet away. The light from the train’s headlamp spills over them from only a few feet away, washing them in bright white blaze for a blinding dawning heartbeat as it nears.

The horn blares again, rattling Jeremy’s bones and thrumming under his feet, electric and stupefying and indescribable for the moment that it fills.

Then it roars past, leaving them blinking to adjust in the dark summer night, the wind catching in his hair, in his clothes, stealing his breath alongside the great noise that still rumbles deep inside Jeremy’s chest.

Michael presses into him again, but this time there’s no elbowing or tickling to hide behind. Instead, the whole length of his body presses right up against Jeremy’s side and stays there, as if he had always been there.

In the safety of the thundering noise, Jeremy slowly knocks his knuckles against Michael’s.

Tentatively, Jeremy lets the light settle inside him, lets the buzzing in his chest grow even louder without trying to smother it quiet. Without restraint, it goes even louder than the train, which is still rushing past and down the tracks.

And then Michael pushes his own fingers through Jeremy’s, and holds them there. A beat later, carefully, almost nervously, he squeezes Jeremy’s hand.

It’s something new, something other than just like it’s always been, and Jeremy can’t remember when it all changed. Can’t remember when they went from _then_ to _now,_ only remembers things slowly falling into place until one day he blinked, and there it was, and here they are.

Michael holds his hand there for a long time, even after the train disappears far, far down the track, leaving only a blinking red tail-light that retreats into the night. Even after the quiet and the crickets return and the moon peeks into the sky.

Michael holds it there even after Jeremy squeezes his hand back. He thinks that it’s an answer, another something new, to prove that this is real.

Jeremy looks down at their hands, just briefly. Then he risks a look at Michael, and there it was. And here they are. 

 

* * *

**august twelfth  
** (the beach)  
_1:55am_

 Five days before Jeremy leaves for college, they take a weekend trip to Long Beach Island.

Michael has a family thing until late, so it’s well past midnight by the time he picks Jeremy up and they make the three hour drive down the coast to Barnegat Light. It’s not a quiet ride, and sometime during the drive Jeremy realizes that it’s because Michael makes him feel calm again, not like the nervous wreck he’s been for the past month.

It’s nice, because it means he can enjoy this, the feeling of being exhausted and stretched thin around the edges and giddy with freedom, with having Michael’s relative’s beach house to themselves, with the night and the Seven Eleven slushies and the fresh smell of the sea-salted air after too long in a car that reeks of highway and fast food.

Once they’ve dumped their stuff into the room they’re sharing, Michael turns to Jeremy, an excited gleam in his eyes. “Let’s go to the beach.”

Jeremy scoffs. “It’s almost two in the morning.”

Michael grins, because he knows Jeremy doesn’t really mean it. “Exactly.”

Jeremy relents because he’s always been weak, and digs around his luggage until he finds an old drawstring bag, which he and Michael fill with snacks and beers they steal from the garage fridge, left behind by a summer’s worth of older cousins and aunts and uncles and family friends who have come before them. Michael brings his speaker, and together they walk down to the beach, gravel softening to sand underneath their flip-flops, the occasional mussel shell glinting in their phone flashlights.

They settle in, plopping down on the sand only a couple dozen feet from the water. The sound of it is soothing, an endless rush that lies hidden in the utter darkness. In any other situation, with any other person, Jeremy thinks the vastness of it all would make him uneasy, but he’s with Michael, and they’re already a beer or two in, and so it’s easy to forget the fear in favor of the thrill.

Eventually, the music dulls out and they lay back, heads resting side-by-side on Michael’s spread-out sweatshirt, both looking up towards the sky.

They talk about nothing and everything, from years past to years to come, and summers and winters and the autumns in between.

It’s a quiet conversation, hardly more than a whisper, and eventually that dulls out too, and they just lay there, stars above them, ocean ahead of them, hardly even realizing they’ve stopped talking at all.

“Hey,” Michael says after a while, and then he pauses. Jeremy doesn’t notice that Michael’s been looking at him until he twists his own head and finds him already looking back. His eyes are bright and wide, lit only by Jeremy’s phone flashlight a couple feet away, and Jeremy realizes all at once what’s Michael’s going to do before he does it.

“Hi,” Jeremy whispers back, because he doesn’t know what else to say or do, and something in Michael’s eyes goes impossibly soft, and Jeremy’s whole body thrums in response.

Michael leans forward and kisses him then, and Jeremy understands all at once that _knowing_ what was about to happen and _actually having it happen_ are two completely different things, because his heart freezes against his ribcage and the world goes blank, except for Michael, whose lips are pressing gently against his, so soft, so earnest, and something else, that same something else that Jeremy’s finally starting to recognize.

It takes a second for Jeremy’s brain to catch up, and the world punches back into normal time again just as Jeremy kisses back, just as slowly, just as disbelievingly. His heart kicks into hyperspeed, pounding as he shifts and slots himself _just right_ against Michael, who whimpers- who _whimpers-_ and Jeremy feels like the ocean itself has rushed right into his chest at the feeling that floods through him.

It’s unhurried at first, this breathless feeling of _kissing Michael_ , where gravity seems to both not exist and yet simultaneously be focused entirely on where their lips meet. And then a cautious hand comes to rest on Jeremy’s hip, who suddenly becomes aware of his own body again, which is now too-hot and fucking _electrified_ by what’s happening right now _,_ and that _almost,_ that terrifying ache that’s been pounding the whole summer, finally starts to be soothed by the limitless possibility of _now,_ of knowing that this hasn’t been only in his head, of knowing that this is real.

It comes with a hope that creeps slowly through his ribcage, leaking through his bones and into his veins, afraid to move or say anything in case he breaks and it all comes spilling out of him. He reluctantly breaks away after a long moment, eyes as wide as Michael’s, whose expression is so cracked open it’s almost overwhelming. He’s looking at Jeremy like he’s found his own personal star. Like he’s found his way home.

Jeremy slowly brings his hand to cup Michael’s cheek, pulls him to rest their foreheads together, and listens to their breathing for a long moment, eyes on Michael’s mouth, on the space between them, anywhere but Michael’s eyes. Then, his voice so soft it breaks, because _what if_ — he says, “Did you— did you mean that?”

Michael is quiet for a long moment, but he doesn’t move. When Jeremy summons the courage to look him in the eye, Michael isn’t looking back, but he’s still breathing hard, his hand still wrapped in Jeremy’s shirt.

“Jeremy,” he breathes, and hesitates for a moment, and then he shifts just enough to press his lips against Jeremy’s temple, just the softest touch, so light Jeremy almost misses it. He feels it, though. He feels it and his breath catches in his lungs, because this is Michael _telling him everything._

“Oh,” Jeremy says, still mostly unable to breathe under the crushing pressure of sheer emotion inside of him. _“Oh,”_ he says again, because it’s the only thing he can do when his entire world is shifting and rebuilding over this new information.

“I think I’ve been in love with you since I _met_ you,” Michael whispers, like he himself can’t quite believe it, and if Jeremy thought he couldn’t breathe before, hearing it all out loud almost stops his heart for good. “And I-” They’re still so close, foreheads still touching, and Jeremy can see the way Michael’s throat is working, can hear the way his voice trembles. “I just-”

“Michael. _”_ He’s still trying to remember how to breathe, but he manages to cut Michael off. There’s so much light spilling through Jeremy and out of him, bright and unbidden and free now that Jeremy’s allowed to have it. _“I love you too.”_

Michael’s breath hitches, and then the space between them is closed, Michael pulling him closer to kiss his cupid’s bow, his lower lip, the corner of his mouth, over and over again until he’s pulling a whine from Jeremy’s throat, shudders running down his spine with every drag of Michael’s hands against his skin. In return, Jeremy kisses back hard, tangles his hand in Michael’s hair and presses them closer, licks into Michael’s mouth and slides their tongues together until Michael groans and they have to pull away for air.

Breathless, Jeremy blinks his eyes open, only to see Michael staring at him half-lidded, a small smile still on his face, his eyes slowly tracing Jeremy’s mouth before they flick up to his eyes. It sends a thrill down Jeremy’s spine, and he can’t help but smile softly in return.

“You’re covered in sand,” Jeremy says, running his hand through Michael’s hair.

“Only one way to fix that,” Michael says into Jeremy’s mouth, and Jeremy can’t find it in himself to be upset when Michael pushes him down into the sand and crawls over him, barring him with his elbows. “Just gotta dirty you up too.”

“Please do,” Jeremy says, grinning, giddy with it, with his ability to speak up instead of swallowing his words, with how Michael looks every bit as happy as Jeremy feels.

Michael drops his head into Jeremy’s shoulder, laughing. “ _God,_ you’re going to be the death of me,” he says, and starts kissing up Jeremy’s throat, biting down and sucking hard. He’s going to leave marks, and the idea makes Jeremy gasp as Michael kisses along his jaw, up to the corner of his lip, until Jeremy pulls him to his mouth.

They kiss again, slick and lazy and until Jeremy’s dizzy with it, and he only breaks away because he can’t help but laugh. Michael pulls away, confused, but Jeremy just brings his arm up around Michael’s neck, scritching gently at his nape, and says, “I just never thought this would happen.”

Michael grins before stealing one last kiss from him. He rolls over to Jeremy’s side and rests his head on the crook of his arm, and uses his free arm to pull Jeremy’s hand between them. He runs a thumb over Jeremy’s knuckles and hums in agreement.

“Me neither,” he admits, kissing his palm because he can, and Jeremy can’t help but marvel at all this. At everything he gets to have with Michael Mell.

 

* * *

**august sixteenth  
** (rockefeller lookout)  
_6:07am_

 It’s just before sunrise, and they’re sitting on the rocks at Rockefeller Lookout waiting for the sun to break.

“I’m gonna miss this so much,” Jeremy says quietly, resting his head on Michael’s shoulder. The world is still so quiet, barely a bird chirping, only the occasional car on the 9W behind them.  “I didn’t even realize until I had to leave, but _God._ We’re so lucky to live here.”

“Lucky to have _you_ ,” Michael mumbles. He’s holding Jeremy’s hand in his lap, gently massaging his palm. “But yeah, I guess New York is pretty sweet, too.”

He speaks so low that Jeremy almost misses it. He only hears it because he’s so close, and though his cheeks heat up, Jeremy can’t help his small smile as he turns to kiss Michael’s shoulder. Michael wraps his arm around Jeremy, and Jeremy sits there, calm, content, happy.

He breathes Michael in, lets the scent of cinnamon and detergent fill his lungs. He tries to memorize the way his world looks right now. Familiar. On the brink of a day that’s exactly like the past eighteen years Jeremy’s known, and yet in some ways nothing like those days at all.

There haven’t been a lot of these moments in the past few days. He and Michael have been forced into to stealing late-nights and sleepovers where they could get them, with the days being left for his own mad-dash packing and panicking, while Michael enjoyed his extra three weeks of summer and tried to bully him into straying from his pre-move in day-checklist to go take a nap with him, or make out on the couch, or play Mario Kart. To Jeremy’s credit, he only gave in about half the time.

It’s a nice reward though, packing list and orientation paperwork completed, getting to look over the New York skyline and see all the sky’s purples and pinks in the river below, the light reflecting off all the glass buildings, the golden lights of the city still lit in the windows that seem so far away.

It’s all on the sleepy edge of electric, right before the day hits with full force, but for now, the world takes it’s time to wake up. The river rolls along, a train on the other side looking like a toy as it follows its path.

“Hey, um.” Jeremy sounds nervous, even to his own ears. It’s enough, apparently, for Michael to pull away and look at him. Jeremy doesn’t look at Michael though- he just stares out across the water, down towards where the city is just starting to shine. “Where do we go from here?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know. College. Everyone says it’s stupid to start school with— with a—,” Jeremy ducks his head, links his fingers through Michael’s and moves their hands between them. “You know.”

Michael stills their hands, pulls them down to his lap again. His voice is small when he asks slowly, “Do _you_ think it’s stupid?”

Jeremy’s eyes widen. “No! God, Michael, _no,_ definitely not.” He swallows his own worry and fear and embarrassment and says, “I just don’t wanna lose you,” he admits. “I just got you.”

Michael gives him a cooked smile, and it relaxes something in Jeremy’s chest that he didn’t even know had tightened.

“Well, you have me,” Michael says, and presses a kiss to Jeremy’s knuckles. “For as long as you want me, I’m here.”

The air feels like it’s been punched from Jeremy’s lungs, because he’s still not used to Michael saying things like that. Not sure he’ll _ever_ be used to it, or that he even wants to be. Right now, all he can do is hug him. He wraps his arms around Michael’s middle and buries his face into Michael’s neck and murmurs,  “I do. I want you. I just want you.”

Michael laughs, startled, but hugs him back. “Jer, I’m gonna take advantage if you keep saying things like that,” he says, which really only makes Jeremy want to repeat it. Makes him want to give himself up and offer everything he has now that he knows Michael wants this too.

But then Michael pulls away, and he asks, his voice nervous, “So, uh. You wanna try the long distance thing?”  

Jeremy grins, warm and light and that now-familiar buzz sparking in his bones. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”

Michael smiles. “Me too.” He knocks their foreheads together, glancing down at Jeremy’s mouth. “Boyfriends, then? I could get used to that.”

“You’d better,” Jeremy murmurs, leaning in and kissing him, and kissing him, and kissing him.

Ahead of them, the sun breaks over the horizon. Jeremy meets Michael’s kiss with a smile, and lets the dawn be electric inside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are always appreciated! 
> 
> i am on [tumblr](http://danisnotofire.tumblr.com). drop me a line.


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